To Marry A British Lord

By

Judith O'brien

From The Cover:

Judith O'Brien has won critical acclaim for her daringly different
romances, from "delectable time-travel romances (Harriet Klausner,
Amazon Books) to Maiden Voyage, her "fun and exciting reincarnation
love story" (Maria C. Ferrer Romantic Times).  Now, with her signature
mix of love and laughter, she crosses, new boundaries by sending a
lively belle from the war-torn south into the dazzling world of
Victorian England's aristocracy- where she intends to wed, if not
wisely, at least very, very well.... Once the toast of Richmond,
Virginia, Constance Lloyd left a string of misfortune behind and
traveled to England to become a mere governess for an upper-class
British family.  Her high-spirited American ways are not always
appreciated, nor is her refusal to act like an empty-headed ninny when
around gentlemen.  But when her beauty catches the eye of none other
than the Prince of Wales, Constance is suddenly a social sensation- and
finds herself proposed to by the son of the Duke of Hastings!  But as
she waltzes in the halls of royalty, Constance is less than madly
happy- for she is filled with doubts about her fiance and his
secrets.

Then she meets her intended's best friend, Joseph Smith, an
all-too-handsome, self-made man.  Now, about to embrace the privileged
life she's always desired, Constance begins to dream of a forbidden and
unexpected love- with the one true prince in Britain's glittering
palaces.

"Her characters are wonderful and so believable that readers can't help
but cheer them on."

"JUDITH O'BRIEN JOINS THE RANKS OF MASTER

STORYTELLERS...."  --Maria C. Ferrer, Romantic Times

ENJOY THE HEARTWARMING ROMANCES OF

TO MARRY A BRITISH LORD

MAIDEN VOYAGE

ONCE UPON A ROSE

RHAPSODY IN TIME

ASHTON'S BRIDE

AND LOOK FOR HER

WONDERFUL STORY, "FIVE

GOLDEN RINGS," IN THE

HOLIDAY COLLECTION

AC/FT OF LOVE

ALL AVAILABLE FROM POCKET BOOKS

praise for Judith O'brien's romance novels , maiden voyage "In Maiden
Voyage, Judith O'Brien creates one of the most original, entertaining
and mystifying reincarnation romances to come along..  .. Maiden Voyage
is a moving romance that .. . stars two haunting souls sharing two
lifetimes together.  Ms.  O'Brien is a superb writer who enables
readers to suspend their disbelief so that they can fully immerse
themselves in an entertaining tale."

--Harriet Klausner, Amazon Books "Fine humor, a bit of Irish blarney
and a ghost named Fitzwilliam Connolly are the backbone of this latest
from O'Brien..  .. Perky dialogue and humor .. . keep it moving at an
easy clip."

--Publishers Weekly "Maiden Voyage is another hit for Judith O'Brien..
.. Fun and exciting.  O'Brien fans, get ready to laugh, cry and
enjoy!"

--Maria C. Ferrer, Romantic Times "An extraordinary, enchanting tale..
.. Written with intense emotion, Maiden Voyage is ... a unique and
powerful story that is not soon forgotten."

--Rendezvous once upon a rose "A richly detailed backdrop of food,
clothing, and manners heightens the drama and provides a touch of
humor.... A sweet love story unfolds amidst deadly intrigue.  This
beautifully realized romance by the talented Judith O'Brien uses the
magic and mystery of time travel to full effect."

--Publishers Weekly "Ms.  O'Brien's ability to richly depict Henry the
ViiI's court is mesmerizing.... A powerful love story.... A glorious
tale."

--Rendezvous ashton's bride "Quite simply, a must-read."

--Publishers Weekly "Lush descriptions, vivid characters, and strong
emotional writing combine to make this an unforgettable novel."

--Rendezvous "I was captivated from the very first page.  Ashton's
Bride is fabulous!  Poignant, powerful, utterly compelling and so very
heartwarming.  Judy O'Brien is the most exciting--and most
original--new voice to hit the romance scene in years!"

--Brenda Joyce, author of The Game "This tender, funny love story will
haunt me for a long time.... I feel as if I've discovered a rare and
charming new treasure to add to my list of favorite authors.  Ms.
O'Brien's fresh and witty style tickled both my funny bone and my
heartstrings."

--Teresa Medeiros, author of A Whisper of Roses "Judith O'Brien makes
you cry and she makes you laugh.  Ashton's Bride is an utterly
heartwarming love story with characters who will captivate you and
leave you basking in a warm, magical glow."

--Dorothy Cannel, author of Femmes Fatal "This is one new writer who
has a whole new light on the art of writing.  I enjoyed this book, and
it was with real regret that I had to stop when the story ended.  Five
bells, NOT TO BE MISSED!"

--Bell, Book and Candle "... A rare and delightful book..  .. Judith
O'Brien has a wonderful sense of humor and she knows how to combine it
with the kind of drama, fantasy, and romance readers cherish."

--Deborah Smith, author of Silk & Stone rhapsody in time "Ms.  O'Brien
takes you on a journey into the Roaring Twenties you'll never forget.
The storyline takes many exciting and dangerous twists and turns to a
stunning conclusion.  This one is a must-read.  Excellent."

--Rendezvous "Rhapsody in Time is an exciting time-travel romance that
pays homage to the New York City of the Roaring Twenties.  Judith
O'Brien has gifted the audience with two dynamic lead characters and a
fast-paced romance."  --Harriet Klausner, Affaire de Coeur "Her
characters are wonderful and so believable that readers can't help
cheer them on.  Time travel has a new voice, and her name is Judith
O'Brien."

Books by Judith O'Brien Rhapsody in Time Ashton's Bride Once Upon a
Rose Maiden Voyage To Marry a British Lord Published by POCKET BOOKS
For orders other than by individual consumers, Pocket Books grants a
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For information on how individual consumers can place orders, please
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POCKET STAR BOOKS New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore-Maria
C.  Ferrer, Romantic Times The sale of this book without its cover is
unauthorized.  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should
be aware that it was reported to the publisher as "unsold and
destroyed."  Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment
for the sale of this "stripped book."

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and
incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS A Pocket Star Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 Copyright 1997 by
Judith O'Brien All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.  For information
address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-00039-X

First Pocket Books printing October 1997 10 987654321 POCKET STAR BOOKS
and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Front cover illustration by Gregg Gulbronson Printed in the U.S.A.

To my friend Mary Curry, who once said, "Hey, have you ever thought of
writing a romance novel?"  To tell you the truth, I hadn't.  But ever
since that day we've spent hours on the phone as our children clamor
for cookies and attention, plotting and planning our books, and living
them more vividly than real life.

Thank you, Mary.

prologue richmond, virginia august 1865 The heat was almost
unbearable.  Constance Lloyd dabbed at her temples with a handkerchief,
worn and frayed but freshly laundered and pressed.  About her wrist was
a small drawstring bag containing the last few Union dollars in her
possession.  She dared not leave it behind at the Smithers sisters'
boarding house, even for the brief walk to the post office.  Sweet as
the elderly women were, and as respectable as the other boarders seemed
to be, Constance was not foolhardy enough to leave her worldly goods
unprotected.  Had she been so reckless, she never would have survived
the past four years.

A cart rolled by on the unpaved street, the dust rising in a dry swirl,
causing her to pause and close her eyes.

Had it ever been so hot in Richmond?

"Good day, Miss Lloyd."

Constance opened her eyes to see Mr.  Bryce, features sharp and
haggard, tip his hat.  Although he was of an age with her own father,
he had just returned from active duty in the Confederate Army.  It had
taken him months to walk back to Richmond after the war had ended.

"Good day, Mr.  Bryce."  She smiled, remembering him years ago, a stout
man who would always slip her a licorice whip when he came visiting at
the Lloyd plantation.

"Is it hot enough for you?"  Mr.  Bryce's face was mottled in the heat,
the sparse gray hair dampened against his scalp.

"Not quite, Mr.  Bryce," she replied sincerely.

"That's why I'm heading further south today, towards the post office.
I'm hoping there will be less of a chill down there."

Mr.  Bryce laughed, more of a brittle cackle, and the laugh became a
cough.  She politely ignored the cough, and he tipped his hat once
more, saluted her with two fingers, and continued on his way.

How strange the encounters were with people she had always known.  Now
they seemed to be strangers, separated by the very ordeal that should
have drawn them together.  At first, the defeat of the Confederacy did
unite them.  As the weeks became months, blame and mistrust and simple
fear of the future seemed to overtake everyone.  Even the simplest of
facts became distorted in the mundane discomfort of daily life. Instead
of patriotic songs and speeches, the survivors engaged in
finger-pointing and accusing every neighbor of harboring sympathetic
thoughts toward the Yankees.  Instead of going forward with their
lives, most seemed to dwell in the past, playing games of what might
have been if only so-and-so had done such-and-such.  The only ones to
escape suspicion were the fallen heroes.  They alone were at peace.

Constance glanced up at two of the intact structures remaining in
Richmond, the State House and the Confederate Executive Mansion.  Both
stood solid and proud as always, surrounded by half-walls and empty
shells of spectral ruins, skeletal remains of the city that once was
Richmond.  Planted firmly above both roofs were large American flags,
waving in the blistering August heat.  How strange those flags still
seemed to her eyes.

Had it ever been this hot in Richmond?

The post office was just ahead.  Constance did not acknowledge the trio
of Union soldiers who stepped aside for her to pass, all three mumbling
a greeting.  Her failure to recognize the men had nothing to do with
the Union victory or any latent hostility.  She had no more energy for
that sort of thing.  Instead, it was an admission of how things had
changed.  Not everyone in Richmond was a friend.

Not so long ago she would have been chastised for walking on the street
without an escort.  Had Wade Cowen seen her stroll down a public street
alone, he would have been furious.  But Wade, her fiance, was dead
these four months.

Although they had not seen each other for over two years, they had
agreed--in a furious, impassioned exchange of letters--to marry when
the war ended.  She had wondered of late if Wade, whom she had known
since childhood, had truly loved her as a woman.  It didn't matter now,
not really.  The day after peace had been declared, Wade--who had never
been much of a horseman--had been killed leading a charge against a
group of picnicking Federal soldiers.

He was given a hero's burial, the last of the fallen Confederates, it
said on his tombstone.  Constance had been told the truth by one of
Wade's fellow officers: poor Wade had simply lost control of his horse.
When he realized he was riding towards a cluster of stunned Feds, he
probably went through his choices, and decided it was better to die a
hero than to live a fool.  So at the last moment, struggling with the
reins, he pulled out his sword and waved it, more in an effort to
regain balance than as a threat.

The Feds shouted at him to stop, and when he could not, they shot him
once through the forehead.  Just once.  The officer who shot Wade had
written Constance a note about her fiance's bravery, and everyone
agreed he felt terrible about the shooting.

The line at the post office was long, as Constance knew it would be.
Everyone was hoping that some distant relation up North would mail them
money.  Virginians who had previously declared to have no connections
whatsoever with the Union were now writing frantic letters, asking for
loans, reminding cousins by marriage in New York and Ohio and Vermont
of the binding thickness of blood.

The line snaked forward as the single clerk shook his head at requests
for free postage, inquiries concerning a parcel an individual knew,
just knew, would be arriving any day now.

"Poor Miss Lloyd."

It had not been a greeting.  Someone behind her had simply issued a
statement.

"Poor Miss Lloyd indeed."  Another woman echoed her companion's
opinion.

Constance did not even blink.  She was used to it by now, the murmurs
and gentle tisking of acquaintances who pitied her.  It seemed absurd
that after four years of violent death and disease, of moral
destruction, of tragedy such as the world had seldom seen, the plight
of eighteen-year-old Constance Lloyd seemed to wring condolences from
even the hardest of hearts.

True, her father had perished of the mumps shortly after enlisting in
the Confederate Army.  Soon after that, her mother died of what seemed
to have been little more than a bad cold.  By the time the main house
of the plantation erupted in fire, there were too few servants, or
slaves as the Feds called them, to do much more than watch the
conflagration.

Wade's death had been the final blow, although by then she was too numb
to feel much of a loss.  Everyone had suffered during the war; not a
single person was left unscathed.  But Constance, whose path to
maturity was marked by each devastation, seemed to evoke pity in
everyone.

It was absolutely intolerable.  There was no place for her to escape
the downturned mouths and sad eyes of sympathy.

"..  . and then her beloved fiance Wade Cow-en .. ."

She clutched the drawstring bag so tightly her knuckles turned white.

"..  . and her mother.  Don't forget her mother.  I was at her coming
out, and never was there such a belle in all of Virginia.  She was
English, you know, from England."

The women's voices rose as they discussed Constance, the
marble-columned mansion where she grew up, the paragon that was her
father, the perfection that was her mother, her poverty, the mended
tear in the skirt of her dress.

Constance stifled the urge to scream.  How delightful it would be to
turn around and face the old hens, to hit them over the head with her
purse, or to tell Mrs.  Witherspoon that her beloved son had sold the
family silver for Union whiskey.

Instead she moved ahead with the line.

"Miss Lloyd," said the clerk when at last she reached the window.

"There is a letter for you."

The clerk seemed relieved to finally have something to give to someone.
He bobbed behind the shelves and emerged holding a battered envelope.

"It's from England," he announced in a loud voice.  A quivering hush
fell over the post office as she took the letter in her bare
hands--when had she last worn gloves?-and stepped away from the
window.

Her hands were trembling.

"Please, God," she whispered, aware that she had not prayed for a very
long time.

With her thumb, she gently loosened a flap, pausing only once.

"Please," she repeated.

This was it.  She had written her mother's cousins, asking if they knew
of a position as a governess amongst their friends in England.  It had
been a last resort, a final attempt to regain control of her life.
Should this fail, she had no place to turn.

She stepped to a corner of the post office for privacy she knew would
elude her, but she couldn't possibly wait until she reached her tiny
room at the Smithers sisters' house.  She held her future in her
hands.

Taking a deep breath, she slid the letter from the envelope and tilted
the first of what seemed to be many pages towards the light.

My dear Cousin Constance, We are delighted to inform you that there is,
indeed, a position for you here in England.  Come as soon as possible.
Enclosed is a one-way passage..  ..

That was all she could read before her vision misted with tears.
Clamping her hand over her mouth, she was unable to stop the gasp that
escaped.

She was saved.

The gasp was followed by another, and before she could leave the post
office she was weeping with relief, loud, wrenching sounds, tears
rolling freely from her eyes.

She had not cried in years.  But it didn't matter, nothing mattered.

She was saved.

"Poor Miss Lloyd.  More bad news, no doubt," said Mrs.  Witherspoon as
Constance ran from the building, bumping into a brass spittoon and
begging its forgiveness in her haste.

"Was there ever a more wretched, unfortunate girl on the face of this
earth?"

Cowes, Isle of Wight, England august 1874 My goodness, Miss Lloyd! You
are so very, very lucky!  How I envy you!  Was there ever a more
fortunate girl on the face of the earth?"

Constance smiled as she held the veil over her head.

"I doubt it, Melody.  I doubt it very much indeed.  But at the age of
twenty and seven, I do believe I ceased being a girl sometime during
the last decade."

"Do you know how the other girls envy you?  The coming out was for us,
after all.  And who won the glittering prize?  Who danced with the
Prince of Wales himself for three waltzes in a row?  Who did the son of
a duke ask to be his wife?  My own governess!  Honestly, Miss Lloyd, if
I didn't love you so much, I do believe I would hate you."

Constance was about to respond when she glanced at her former charge.

"Oh, Melody," she breathed.

"I can scarcely believe it myself."

A luscious breeze, sharp and salty from the sea, billowed the curtains
of Constance's room.  It seemed impossible that, after nine years in
the employ of Mrs.

Whitestone as a governess and, more importantly, as a friend, she
would be leaving within the week to join her fiance at his family's
estate.  And he would arrive in his father's carriage, ducal emblem
encrusted on the doors, any day now, to escort her to her new ;

home.  It would be a temporary home, of course, because she was sure
that when they were married, he would want to establish a household of
their own.  Perhaps they would live in London.  Perhaps her fiance had
a different idea, one he had not shared with her yet simply because the
whole engagement had been so deliriously swift.

Her fiance.  The word seemed peculiar, a different feeling entirely
from when she had been engaged during the war.  Wade had seemed such a
child, perhaps because she had known him all of her life and could even
now recall him as a little boy with freckles and a chipped front tooth.
Now the very word fiance was filled with mystery and surprise and
romance.

"Oh, Miss Lloyd, please tell me again.  Tell me the whole story."

Melody Whitestone sighed as she rested her head upon her hand.  She was
the prettiest of the two Whitestone girls and, unfortunately--in spite
of all of Constance's attempts to counter Melody's high opinion of
herself--she knew it, and used those charms mercilessly.  Her beauty
was of the plumpish sort, a childlike softness that reminded Constance
of an idealized Cupid, all pink cheeks and golden curls.

Constance, by contrast, was tall--some said too tall--and dark.  Her
height, well above five-and-a-half feet, had been quite an advantage as
a governess.  It was only during her first moments dancing with the
portly Prince that she felt a flush of-embarrassment because of her
stature.  Instead of looking directly into to His Majesty's small,
protruding eyes, she was forced to cast her gaze downward, just
slightly, but noticeably.

Her coloring, dark hair, and pale blue eyes, also seemed remarkable to
some of the Whitestones' neighbors, and to the curious onlookers at the
ball.  She had been noticed before by the cream of society, always
during the brief Cowes season.  The first time she had come to anyone's
attention was when she came to Lady Montclair's rescue when her horse
bolted from the gently trotting pack of sidesaddled ladies.  Constance
Lloyd, with her practical gray dress, curiously adorned with a sprig of
dried laurel leaves at the throat, grabbed the reins and calmed both
the horse and the whimpering Lady Montclair.

For that service Lord Montclair offered her a glass of sherry.
Constance declined with grace, her peculiar American accent both soft
and charming.

She declined the sherry, but she had most certainly been noted.  And
because of her startling good looks and surprisingly expert handling of
horses, two unheard-of traits in a governess, more than one observer
speculated out loud that perhaps Miss Lloyd was part savage.  She was,
after all, from America.  Hair as dark and lustrous as hers was seldom
paired with eyes the shade of fine turquoise.

The rumor was further spun that her grandfather had been an Indian
warrior, of a tribe varying from Cherokee to Mohawk, and he had scalped
her grandmother--a highborn English beauty--on the very day of her
mother's birth.  The Indian warrior, of course, had wanted a son, not a
daughter, and the scalping was merely a suitable punishment for the
warrior's disappointment.  Such things were appallingly common in
America, it was said.

Constance did nothing to clarify the idle suspicion.  Again, it was
quite an advantage as a governess.  When the children were very young,
they obeyed her simply out of fear that she would, at any moment, turn
savage--a notion Constance reinforced on a regular basis by eyeing
their hairlines when they misbehaved.  It would never do to reveal that
both maternal grandparents were, in fact, natives of London, and that
the most barbarous display she had ever seen her grandfather perform
was his habit of eating green peas with the blade of his knife.

"Please, Miss Lloyd," Melody begged.

"Please tell me everything that happened the night of the ball."

"You were there, Melody," Constance laughed, carefully folding the
veil.  It had been sent by her fiance's mother, most likely the very
same delicate veil she had worn when she married the duke.

"You saw more than I did, for you were a spectator.  I was in the
middle of the play, so I was not able to see the entire event."

Melody slumped onto the bed and rolled over on her back, clutching a
pillow of Battenberg lace against her chest.

"It was such a blur, I hardly know what I saw.  But, Miss Lloyd, I knew
the night would be special when you came down the stairs in Mother's
gown."

"That was so very kind of her, not only to allow me to attend the ball,
but to lend me one of her gowns."  How they had worked on the gown,
both Constance and Harriet, and even Melody, lengthening the hem,
elongating the waist, and adding bits and pieces of other garments. The
end result had stunned not only its creators, but everyone who had seen
it, a frothy confection of pale pinks and ivorys with a bold neckline
that highlighted Constance's slender, surprisingly alabaster shoulders.
Her thick hair had been woven with pink ribbons, the gloss of her hair
rivaling the shimmer of the satin.  Never had a mere governess been so
bedecked, if not bejeweled.  It had been a farewell gesture, a final
dash of kindness from the generous Harriet Whitestone. Since Captain
Whitestone's death several years before, the family fortune had been on
a decline, and upon the coming out of Melody it was understood that
Constance would have to find another position.  Mrs. Whitestone simply
could not afford the luxury of a governess for three now-grown
children, nor did Constance expect to remain.

So Mrs.  Whitestone managed to have Constance added to the list of
attendees at the Royal Yacht Squadron Ball.  The late captain's name
still carried some weight in military circles; the bulk of his legacy
had been in honor rather than in tangible goods.  It was an unheard-of
gesture, inviting a governess--one of the most invisible members of any
household--to such a regal event.  But Harriet Whitestone knew
Constance would rise to the occasion, and then some.  After all, before
Constance was reduced by the events of the American Civil War, the
Lloyd fortune had been well-regarded in England, and the Lloyds
themselves had been above reproach.

Melody closed her eyes, recalling the night just weeks earlier.

"You came down the staircase, and Miles was the first to gasp.  Did you
hear him, Miss Lloyd?"

"How could I not?"  She smiled.

"I feared he was suffering yet another bout of the hiccups.  Remember
how he used to be overtaken by them when he was a child?"

"I'd almost forgot.  But he has always rather fancied you, Miss Lloyd.
He may have been your charge, but he is only five years younger than
you."

"A fact Master Miles has always taken great delight in mentioning on a
frequent basis," Constance I laughed.

"Miss Lloyd, had you ever seen him before?"

"Miles?  Why of course."  A small dimple appeared on one side of her
chin, a telltale sign to those who knew her well that she was
repressing a grin.

"No, I mean your him.  Your fiance."

Constance paused, wondering if she should tell young Melody the whole
truth.  In fact, Constance had been very much aware of Philip Cyril St.
John Arthur Albert Hastings, the second son of the venerable Duke of
Ballsbridge.  For the past seven years she had seen him ride past the
Whitestone home for the two weeks of the Cowes season, always riding a
superb mount, always wearing an impeccable riding suit of the latest
cut.

In short, he was glorious.

Never had Constance uttered his name out loud.  He was her private
dream, a fantasy to weave and cherish during the long hours in the
schoolroom or in her small corner of the house.  Rain would beat
against the window panes as the seasons passed, weeks and months
lapsing into years, when once again it was time to see the splendid
image of young Lord Hastings--his spine straight, his aquiline profile
set, his pale hair ruffling in the breeze--ride past the house where
she was employed.

Once he seemed to turn towards her, perhaps alerted by the sound of
some birds in a nearby shrub, but his gaze did not rest on her.  She
had been wearing a dull gray gown that day, appropriate to her position
as a governess, rendering her as invisible as she indeed was to
society.  Pinned at her collar had been her customary sprigs of bay, a
habit she had fostered during the war, when jewelry had been a distant
memory and the fragrant laurel had both adorned her increasingly
limited wardrobe and reminded her of a distant hope of victory.

Lord Hastings, as she had learned was his name from the local
blacksmith, had been clad in magnificent shades of evergreen and black,
his boots gleaming even in the sunless afternoon.

He had not even seen her.  No one ever saw the reliable Constance
Lloyd, tucked away in her neat quarters above the rest of the house.

And then, when she was dancing with the Prince of Wales, he did see
her.  Everyone saw Constance Lloyd.  Everything changed in the span of
two hours.

"May I, your Majesty?"

Those were the first words she ever heard Philip speak.  He was
standing just beyond the prince, a stiff bow, a small smile on his
lips.  The prince laughed and said something, what it was she would
never recall, and then she was waltzing with Philip Cyril St.  John
Arthur Albert Hastings, son of the Duke of Balls-bridge.

"Have we met before?"

Those were the first words he ever addressed to her.  Constance smiled
and shook her head, still looking up at his face.  He smelled vaguely
of brandy and cigars, a scent that was not at all unpleasant and seemed
to suit him very well indeed.

They stepped outside for some Roman punch, and he crooked his arm for
her to clasp, for her to touch.  The night air was misty and cold, and
they spoke of his home and his title and his hopes to be elected to
Parliament, to the House of Commons, representing his ancestral seat of
Ballsbridge.

As a second son, he was not entitled to a seat in the House of Lords.
In time, his elder brother would claim that right, along with the
entire estate.  Philip was not bitter about his position, did not seem
to mind that, barring a family tragedy, he was forever consigned to the
role of second son, the "spare" born following the all-important
"heir."  Another aspect of Philip was his lack of curiosity  about her
past.  He did not seem the least bit interested in anything concerning
her life before that first waltz.  Once he asked if she was an
American, and she admitted to the fact.  Once he asked what part of
America she was from, and she began to describe Virginia and the
plantation that had been her home a long time ago, but he had simply
looked to the ocean and asked if she minded if he smoked a cigar.

When was the last time a gentleman had asked Constance permission to do
anything?  Of course it was against the strictest code of behavior to
ever smoke in front of a lady.  Yet he was a lord, and she was a
governess, and his asking permission seemed the kindest, most
considerate gesture of all.

After the ball she went home in the Whitestones' rented carriage.  It
had been a lovely interlude, a brief spell before the real world
intruded.  Melody White-stone was bubbling over with news; Mrs.
Whitestone smiled and stared at Constance, who imagined she could still
detect the fragrance of Lord Hastings on her borrowed gloves and hidden
in the folds of her employer's fan.

The next morning, she finished packing her bags and wrote a final note
to her new employers in Bath, letting them know when she would be
arriving.  They were a young family, with four children and another on
the way.  As she continued her arrangements to leave, Lord Hastings
called on her, this time in a spectacular ruby-colored jacket.  Harriet
Whitestone, just past forty herself and still every inch a romantic,
asked Constance to delay her departure for just a while longer, for the
house would seem desperately empty without her, at least until
Melicent--her eldest daughter, now married to a Mr.  Furman of
Newcastle--arrived for a visit.

Of course, Harriet simply wanted the duke's young son to have a chance
to forge a bond with Miss Lloyd.

And within four days, with his mother's permission, Philip had proposed
marriage.

It still seemed a dream, a fairy tale come magically to life.

How much should she tell Melody, or even her future husband, of the
times she had watched him from such an impossible distance?  She looked
over at Melody, her eyes still unfocused with her own daydreams.
Perhaps she should keep it to herself, the truth that she had been so
very aware of Philip long before they met.

The door to the governess's room received a gentle tap before Harriet
Whitestone entered.

"So there you are, the two of you."  She smiled.  Even four years after
the death of Captain White-stone, Harriet still wore half mourning,
shades of gray and jet, and a simple brooch made of her husband's hair,
braided and set in a gold circle.

It had been fortunate for the Whitestone finances that Queen Victoria's
mourning had lasted well over a decade.  That made Harriet's perpetual
status as a grieving widow fashionable, although the mourning clothes
were more a nod to economy than to overwhelming grief.  One could wear
the same mourning gown for years with nary a comment from the
neighbors, something that could never be said of a more cheerful
dress.

"Mrs.  Whitestone."  Constance rose to her feet, and Harriet began to
laugh.

"My dear!  Do you realize that within the month you will be Lady Philip
Hastings?  Please, allow me to get accustomed to rising upon your entry
to a room!"

"Mother, isn't this the most exciting, romantic thing in the world?"
Melody Whitestone again sighed, "Indeed it is, Melody.  But this just
arrived, Constance.  It's a letter from Hastings House.  I wanted to
get this into your hands as soon as possible."

Harriet passed the letter to Constance, who stared for a moment at the
unfamiliar handwriting.  It was small and very neat, and she assumed it
was the hand of Philip's mother.

"May I?"  Constance automatically asked Harriet's permission before
opening her mail, not noticing her former employer's quick wink at
Melody before nodding towards Constance.

When she opened the letter she realized it was from Philip himself.

"How odd," she muttered before she even began to read the contents.

"Is anything wrong?"  Harriet was far too polite to peer over her
shoulder, and kept a distance.

"No.  It's just that I've never seen Philip's handwriting before."

"It's quite a tidy hand," commented Harriet, repressing a smile.

"I imagine there is a great deal you will very soon learn of your
future husband.  Come, Melody.  Let us allow Miss Lloyd her privacy."

But Constance held up her hand.

"Oh, dear," she frowned, scanning the words.

"I do hope there is no bad news."  Harriet paused.

"No.  no.  This is just rather odd.  Philip will not be able to take me
to Hastings House after all."

"Indeed?"

"No.  His mother feels it would be a better use of his time to actively
campaign for the election instead of wasting four full days in fetching
me."  She blinked, shaking her head.

"I suppose she's right.  After all, Philip has been in London all these
years, so only his name is fully known in Ballsbridge."

"Four full days?"  Harriet tilted her head in confusion.

"But by the railroad a journey to Yorkshire should take much less
time."

"According to this letter, the duchess does not trust the railroads."
Constance shook her head.

"She feels they are unnatural and perhaps ungodly.  So she wishes me to
travel by coach."

"Oh, how sad," Melody reached out and touched Constance's wrist.

"I was rather looking forward to seeing the dashing Lord Hastings
again.  Have you noticed his nose, Mother?  It's terribly well-formed.
Regal, almost.  Miss Lloyd, I'm sure you have noticed what a
magnificent nose your future husband has."

"I have noticed that very fact."  Constance smiled.

"And it is so attractively placed, right between his eyes and above his
mouth."

Harriet laughed, giving Constance an affectionate hug.

"Oh, my dear, you have no idea how much I'm going to miss you.  How I
do envy those lucky persons at Hastings House."

"They do have a treat in store for them, Mrs.  Whitestone."  Constance
returned the hug.

"But, Miss Lloyd."  Melody lead the way towards the door.

"How will you get to Hastings House if Lord Hastings is not going to
accompany you?  How will your safety be ensured?  My goodness, the
stories I have read of these roads at night, with all sorts of
dangerous pirates and murderers lurking about behind trees at every
turn.  They are all but abandoned since the railroad.  Surely you are
not expected to make the journey on your own."

"No, I am not.  This is the curious part; he is sending an old
schoolfriend of his to collect me.  Let's see."  She again glanced
through the letter.

"Oh, here it is.  He's a very dear friend from public school and then
Oxford.  His name is Mr.  Joseph Smith."

"Joseph Smith?"  Melody frowned, and then, realizing the expression
might spoil her complexion with wrinkles, set her face into a
line-free, neutrally pleasant cast.

"What a dreadfully common name.  I don't suppose he is anyone
important, certainly not a peer.  He can't possibly be anyone at
all."

"Why, Miss Whitestone, what a monstrous snob you have become," her
mother scolded.

"I must speak to your governess directly."

And the three women, laughing, descended the stairs for their afternoon
tea.

"The things I do for you, Hastings," Joseph Smith muttered, taking yet
another liberal swallow of whiskey.

Philip raised a finger in a subtle gesture to the impeccably dressed
steward, who silently placed the crystal decanter on the mahogany table
between the two leather chairs.  The loud noises of London, the
barbarous shouts of street urchins and the grinding of carriage wheels,
were muffled on the quiet Pall Mall street, and further subdued by the
club's thick walls and heavy drapes.  If one had to be in London, this
was the most civilized place to be, apart from the Prince of Wales'
Marlborough House.  Of course, Marlborough House was widely known to be
the best-run household in all of London, and therefore all the world.

One day soon, Philip had high hopes of being invited as a guest to HM's
home.  He had seen the glint in the Prince's eyes as he danced with
Miss Lloyd, a most certain signal that anyone attached to Miss Lloyd
would be received eagerly by the future king.  Once she was his wife,
he would very soon be established in the Marlborough House set.  One
day very soon.  Perhaps he would even be invited to join the prince's
exclusive Marlborough Club, the royal heir's own bastion within a
stone's throw of Marlborough House.

He grinned at his friend, the hopelessly unfashionable Joseph Smith.

"Come, come, Smith.  It will only take you four days to fetch her, and
I know for a fact that you need to look in on that new factory of
yours.  Where is it again?"

"Nowhere near the Isle of Wight.  For God's sake, Philip, why couldn't
you marry a girl from London, and save us all the travel time?"

Philip was aware that his friend was angry.  At such times his accent,
usually a studied Oxbridge blend, reverted to the lilting cadences of
his childhood in Wales.  Philip never did know exactly what town Joseph
was from.  All he was told by his friend was that it was a very long
name with very few vowels.  Philip gladly left the subject alone.

"She's to be your bride.  You should get her yourself, not send me. You
know that, don't you?"  Joseph splashed more whiskey into his glass.

"Mother insists I remain behind."  Philip suddenly became quite
interested in his fingernails, examining them for any unsightly shreds
or tears.

"Tell me more about her, Hastings.  All I know is that she is an
American of good stock.  That's all you've revealed thus far.  Where is
she from in America?"

"The eastern part, I believe.  Did you hear that Randolph Churchill is
in town?  I need to talk to him about marrying an American.  I wonder
if his wife knows my fiancee.  Both from America, you know."

"Good old Gooseberry."  Joseph grinned, referring to their young
friend's schoolboy name.  He had been an infamous "scug" while at
Eaton, such a rascal that even those who had left the school years
earlier knew him by reputation.  There was not much hope for
Churchill's future, rather a general feeling that he would spend the
rest of his life disgracing his family's illustrious past.

"So what's her name?"

"You remember, Joseph.  She is the former Jennie Jerome, the daughter
of Leonard Jerome of New York City.  Now, of course, she is Lady
Randolph Churchill.  She's about to pop their first child.  A boy, no
doubt.  American women always seem to have boys, bless them.  That's
what Mother says, at any rate."

Joseph Smith took a deep breath and shook his head.  Unlike his friend,
who was pale and elegant and utterly patrician, Joseph was
unfashionably tanned from being outdoors.  While Philip wore an
impressive set of sideburn whiskers, slightly darker than his blond
hair, Joseph's face was clean-shaven, leaving .  the very slight--but
in Philip's mind unsightly--scar \ on his left cheek visible for all
the world to see.  } His lack of facial hair was more a result of his I
restless nature than a comment on fashion.  He simply did not have the
interest nor the inclination to embark on the never-ending quest to
cultivate a splendid set of whiskers.  Joseph Smith--his auburn hair
too long, his skin too bronzed and his body too muscular \ for
elegance--did not have the patience to fit in with  the rest of the
patrons of the Carlton Club.

But he was a member.  His wealth, new though it was, made him more than
acceptable in most clubs and as an extra man at the finest of
assemblies.  And many women, more than would openly admit, found him
absolutely fascinating, and his masculine edge-just slightly wild--a
refreshing change from the most  refined gentlemen.  [ "Philip, I am
asking about your fiancee, not Goose-berry's wife.  What is her
name?"  [ "Oh.  Constance.  Weller, yes.  She is an orphan as [ far as
I know, although I do believe her family at one time had some sort of
wealth.  Her name is Constance  Lloyd."

"And she's from the eastern coast of America?  Any clue as to where
exactly?"  \ "What do you mean, 'where'?  Joseph, your obsession with
details can be quite tiresome."  [ "If I am to spend long hours in a
closed carriage with this woman, I would like to know as much as
possible about her.  A start would be where she is from.  Now can you
recall if she is from Maine or New Jersey?"

Philip gave his friend a disinterested shrug.

"I will make it easy, Hastings.  She's from the coast.  Now, is her
place of origin up or down?"

"I can't recall.  You know bloody well I've never been there, Joseph.
Wait.  Virginia.  That's it--she's from Virginia.  Or was it South
Carolina?"

"A Confederate, then," Joseph said.

"Interesting."  He grinned at his friend.

"So she stole your heart at first glance?"

"Weller..."

"It's no use hedging with me.  I know you too damn well.  Why on earth
is the very eligible Lord Hastings marrying a penniless, orphaned,
Confederate governess?  Just curious, I suppose.  Tell me."

"Blast.  All right.  Because no one else would have me."

Joseph had not been prepared for that answer.  Had he anticipated the
nature of the response, he never would have taken such a liberal
swallow of whiskey, and therefore he never would have spit it directly
into his friend's face.

"Not on my whiskers, Smith!  I've just had them trimmed and powdered!"
Philip dabbed carefully at his sideburns.

"Sorry, Philip.  Just what do you mean, 'no one else would have me'? To
the left, you missed a spot."

Philip glared at his friend, annoyed to discover the obvious amusement
on the sun-darkened features.

"Because of my father.  Bloody hell--now I smell like a distillery."

"You usually do anyway.  What do you mean, because of your father?"

"You know as well as anyone that my father is considered rather
eccentric.  Is my cravat wet?"

"No.  It's as impeccable as ever.  Your father is considered eccentric?
But he is also considered one of the wealthiest peers in England. That
should count for something."

"It does, certainly.  You and your investment suggestions have had more
to do with our financial status than any of our land holdings. Chemical
dyes, what?  Who would imagine that synthetic indigo would save us from
disaster.  But, damn it, Smith, he spends his days digging tunnels at
Hastings House.  Do you know he just had a ballroom built that can hold
over two hundred people?"

"Did he, now?  That should be a welcome addition to the house."

"It would be, but he built the thing underground, beneath the apple
orchard.  One has to journey through his tunnels in handcarts to reach
the place."  Philip folded his handkerchief and returned it to his
pocket.

"I am fully aware that Father is called the Mole Man by most of polite
society.  I do wish you would wipe that smile off your face, Smith.  It
does not become you."

"Sorry.  The truth is, I am enormously fond of your father.  He has
shown me more genuine affection than my own relations back in Wales.
He's a good, kind man, Philip.  If I were you, I would be proud of
him."

"Proud of him?  He hasn't left the estate in fifteen years!  He will
only travel by tunnel, and then he insists on carrying a lunch pail,
convinced that nothing can go wrong if one is provided with a packed
meal.  I think his ultimate goal must be to tunnel his way to London,
so he will never have to venture above ground again.  My poor mother ..
."

"Your poor mother couldn't be more pleased with the situation," Joseph
interrupted.

"She likes to think she controls everything, the running of the estate,
most of the business matters."  Under his breath he added, "And she
controls you."

Philip seemed not to hear.

"The papers refuse to print her latest notice.  She is most vexed,
Smith.  Most vexed, indeed."

"Is she still sending the Times those fraudulent death notices?  They
simply evoke more comments, Philip.  No one believes your father is
dead.  When he does pass on, and God willing that will not be for many
years, you will have a devil of a time convincing anyone, including his
physician, that his time has come.  What cause of death did your mother
cook up this time?"

"Oh, well.  She issued a notice proclaiming that he had been killed in
a hunting accident."

Joseph Smith laughed.

"Your father hasn't hunted in years!"

"It's not funny, Smith.  She had hoped that with Father out of the way,
or at least believed to be out of the way, I might have a chance at one
of the better women who came out this season.  I'm a second son with no
means of employment, and I do have something of a reputation for being
rather reckless."

"Come, come, Philip, it can't be as bad as all that."

"It is, and worse.  I offered myself to no less than five women this
season, and every single one of them refused me.  Even Lillian
Lisle."

Joseph chuckled.

"How is Miss Lisle?  I have yet to see her since last Christmas."

"Well, she gained another stone and her mustache is becoming quite
alarming.  But even Lillian Lisle had the audacity to laugh at me when
I professed my love for her."

"For God's sake, Hastings, what did you expect?  It was only last year
that you sent her the hedge trimmer for her upper lip.  Surely you
can't be surprised that she did not want to spend the rest of her life
receiving gardening tools for her dresser top."

Philip was silent for a moment.

"Was it only last year, that hedge-trimmer incident?  Good Lord, I had
almost forgotten.  I was terribly drunk at the time, you know."

"Of course you were.  What about the others you proposed to?"

"They are all afraid that insanity runs in the family.  It's because of
my father, blast it all.  No woman will have me because my father is
the mad Mole Man."

"Your father is not insane.  He's one of the sanest men I've ever met.
He just wisely chooses to avoid society, which makes him very clever
indeed."

"It doesn't matter.  My brother seems to remain untouched by the family
curse.  It's because he's the eldest, you know.  He'll have no trouble
at all finding a wife.  He's to inherit.  He could be mad as a hatter,
and still have his absolute pick of any season."

"Still, he's never made it to the altar."

"He's come damn close, and that's the thing.  No, Mother is not worried
about Dishy finding a wife.  It's me she's worried about.  All those
rumors, Smith, all about some of my, well, escapades.  Not all of us
have our nose to the grindstone like you, old boy."

"Not all of us have to," Smith added grimly.

"In any case, you have managed to snare a beautiful bride.  From what
I've heard, she is a real corker.  And there must be an element of love
on your part, to hasten the ceremony."

Philip shrugged.

"Mother insists that I marry before the elections."

"What on earth for?"

"Well, she fears that, as a bachelor well into my thirties, my being
single would seem, well, peculiar.  I went to Cowes with the intention
of finding a bride.  And just when I was about to give up, I saw HM
dancing with an extraordinary-looking young woman.  Old Bertie was
positively glowing, and the Princess of Wales was eyeing the woman as
well.  So I waited three waltzes, cutting off that Rafferty fellow with
the scar on his face.  Oh, sorry.  No offense."

Smith smiled and nodded, and his friend continued.

"So, I asked this creature for a dance.  Mother did a quick check--she
has her sources, you know.  It seems that her family is solid, and the
fact that they are dead was also quite appealing to Mother."

This time Smith swallowed the whiskey instead of spitting it out.

"Why on earth would that be appealing?"

"Because with no family we do not have to worry about a shipment of
loud Americans descending upon Hastings House, or any vulgar mother
snapping up the jewelry and snuff boxes or influencing my sons."

"Sons?"

"American women always have sons.  Other than for the elections, that
is the main reason for my marriage.  Mother made sure her hips are wide
enough for breeding--we took her measurements for the wedding gown
Mother is having made."

"This is absolutely ridiculous.  Do you know anything about the woman
who is to be your wife?  What is she like, Philip?"

"She is lovely, dark hair, as I recall, and her accent is tolerable."

"Well, that's all we need to know, isn't it?"

A steward appeared at Joseph's left arm, bearing a silver salver with a
sealed note upon it.  The return address was facedown, as was always
the case when a gentleman received mail at his club.  Many a lady's
reputation would be lost forever if her club correspondence were
revealed.

"Sir?"

Joseph took the letter.

"Thank you," he muttered to the steward as he opened the envelope and
scanned the contents.  The lines on his forehead became more pronounced
as he read, then folded the letter and replaced it.  , "A reply, sir?"
the steward asked, bowing slightly.

"No, Baker.  No reply is necessary, but I thank " you."  ;' Philip
waited for the man to withdraw before he spoke.  I "So you'll do it,
Smith?  You'll fetch Constance to Hastings House for me?"  In spite of
his dampened whiskers, Lord Hastings suddenly looked like a worried
adolescent.

"Of course I will.  It seems I have some business in that direction
after all."  Joseph was silent for a moment, his gaze focused on the
fire screen.  Then he  shook his head, his expression lightening.

"One of I these days, you know, I'm going to call upon you for a favor,
and it's going to be immensely costly and inconvenient."

Finally Philip chuckled.

"I expect it will.  Thank you, Joseph.  You are a true friend."  He
lifted his glass, and they toasted their friendship.

Constance glanced for the third time at the mantel clock.  She was
dressed in a new traveling suit, a dark maroon dress more tightly
fitted than she was accustomed to as a governess.  The dress, along
with several others, had arrived just the day before from Hastings
House.  The note attached to the parcel, from Philip's mother, was
brief and to the point.  The clothing was to keep her from possible
embarrassment that might arise should she be improperly attired.

There was no note from Philip.  He added no message, nor was there even
a reference to the upcoming marriage in his mother's letter.  It was
almost as if she did not want to dwell on the event.  Constance
wondered if Philip even knew of the package his mother had sent.

In the Whitestones' hallway was her single trunk and her scuffed wooden
lap desk, all she required even with the addition of the new,
antihumiliation disguises.  The battered trunk was the same piece of
luggage that had traveled with her from Richmond almost a decade
earlier.  Now it was once again taking her to a new life.

The writing desk, which had been her mother's, had given her joy even
in the darkest moments of her life.  At times she could not bear to
face it, to open the' hinged lid and see the corked crystal ink bottles
and the quill pens with the tips still darkened from the last words her
mother wrote.

Tucked into a secret compartment were some yellowing sheets of her
mother's notepaper, embossed with her initials, paper that had been
ordered well before the war.  The desk was all that remained now of her
life before becoming a governess.  That was all she had taken with her
from her home.

"He should be here soon, Constance," Harriet Whitestone smiled, noting
the younger woman's restlessness.

"He was quite precise in his note, he would arrive between ten o'clock
and ten-thirty in the morning, and it is now just twenty minutes past
ten.  I would be very much surprised if he is late."

Constance nodded in agreement.

"As would I. From his correspondence with me thus far, he seems a
remarkably prompt man."

"That is not such an evil trait, my dear.  You should not be cross with
him simply because he is not the man you had hoped would escort you to
Hastings House.  Your fiance thinks highly enough of this Joseph Smith
to entrust him with his most precious possession.  His only flaw at the
moment is that he is not Lord Hastings.  Oh, I hear a coach out
front."

The two women remained seated, listening as the Whitestones' maid,
Betty, answered the door.

Constance heard a man's voice, low and not at all unappealing to her
ears.  The parlor door opened, and!  Betty, her face flushed and her
starched caplet just I slightly tilted, bobbed into the room.

"Mr.  Joseph Smith has arrived, ma'am."  She held the door, and Joseph
Smith entered the small room, He was not at all what Constance had been
expecting.  In spite of his rather ordinary name, Constance had
imagined he would be a man much like Philip, very slender and elegant
and smooth and whiskered.  This man was tall, perhaps even taller than
Philip, but he was broad of shoulder, as if he could toss a chair
across the room with little effort.  His hair was thick and coppery
dark, very straight, very unlike the flaxen hair of Philip.  His eyes
seemed to take in everything at once, and Constance could not tell
their precise color, but they seemed to be of the same burnished copper
as his hair.  And his face itself, free of whiskers, was more than
pleasing, more than handsome.  She was used to men with beards to hide
their every expression.  Seeing so much skin, even on his face, seemed
peculiar and intimate, especially when paired with his very correct
attire.  It was a striking and almost unsettling combination.

"Miss Lloyd?"  He addressed Harriet, who reddened and shook her head.

"I'm afraid not, Mr.  Smith.  I am Harriet White-stone.  This is Miss
Lloyd."  Harriet held her hand towards Constance, who nodded and smiled
with just a slight hesitation.

For some reason, this man made her feel uncomfortable.

"Excuse me, Miss Lloyd."  He did not seem to look at her again; instead
he shifted his gloves to the other hand, as if his single glance had
been enough to fully form his opinion.  And, from his expression, his
opinion of Constance Lloyd was not a favorable one.

"I would like to begin our journey as quickly as possible.  Shall I
have the coachman fetch your trunks?"  Already he was backing towards
the door.

"I, well, yes.  Certainly."  Her eyes met those of Harriet Whitestone,
who also seemed surprised at the abruptness of Mr.  Smith's manner.

"I only have one trunk.  And a lap desk."

"Only one trunk?  And a lap desk?"  His voice betrayed incredulity, and
then he paused and nodded.

"I see."  His eyes flicked once more over her form, and she had the
distinct impression that Mr.  Joseph Smith disapproved not only of
Constance Lloyd, but also of the fact that she only had one trunk, and
above all that she had a lap desk.

Before she stopped to think, she stiffened, clasping her hands together
and hoping to keep her voice even.

"I have been a governess for almost a decade, Mr.  Smith.  There has
been little need for a vast wardrobe.  If you have objections to my
single-trunk state, I am indeed sorry, but I cannot at the present time
remedy the situation.  And about my lap desk, well, I see no need
whatsoever to explain my desk, sir.  No reason whatsoever."

The man paused and gave her a long, slow perusal,!  starting at the top
of her head, where her temples had suddenly begun to throb, dwelling
briefly at the sprig of laurel at her throat, all the way to her shoes,
which she was acutely aware were not of the highest quality.; Philip's
mother had neglected to ask for her shoe* size.

Why on earth had she spoken?  When Philip heard how she behaved, she
wouldn't be surprised if he withdrew his offer and instead dismissed
her to ... Laughter.  Mr.  Joseph Smith was standing in the
Whitestones' parlor, laughing a rich, lilting chuckle.  Harriet's face
went from too pale to flushed and then she, too, began to laugh.
Finally Mr.  Smith was able to speak.

"Forgive me, Miss Lloyd.  Philip is forever chiding me for my overly
blunt ways, but never with such effective candor.  You must be quite a
marvelous governess, Miss Lloyd."

"Oh, Mr.  Smith, she is!"  Harriet stepped forward.

"How I'm to do without her, I'll never know."

Constance blinked, startled by the change in Mr.  Smith, who had
entered the room like a rolling thundercloud and was now smiling as if
he had always been the most pleasant and agreeable man on the face of
the earth.

"I, well..  ."  she stammered.

"I will await you outside, Miss Lloyd.  I am sure you would like to
have a few moments to bid farewell to Mrs.  Whitestone."

He bowed to both women and left swiftly.

"Thank you, Mr.  Smith," Constance said to the closing door.

"You are most welcome, Miss Lloyd," she heard his retreating voice
reply from the hallway.  Then the shuffling of her trunk being removed
overpowered his voice.  If he had said anything else, she did not hear
a word.

"My, Constance," Harriet said as she embraced her former employee.

"Your journey to Hastings House should be quite interesting, to say the
least."

Constance returned the gentle squeeze.

"How I'm going to miss you, all of you.  I don't know if I can ever
thank you enough.  You have been so kind, so wonderfully kind, and I
don't know what would have become of me had you not taken me in."

"Shush, enough of that," Harriet soothed, aware that her own eyes were
dangerously close to filling with tears.

"We could have never done without you, my dear, dear Constance.  All is
well, my eldest daughter and son are happily married, Melody is out,
and you have done a splendid job of raising and educating them.  It is
only just that you have your turn now.  And what a turn!  Goodness, you
are marrying the son of a duke!  Soon you will be dining with the
Prince of Wales, perhaps I even the Queen of England herself!  Oh,
Constance, I couldn't be more proud of you if you were my own
daughter."

Constance swallowed and nodded, not trusting her voice.  She had
survived for so long by not showing her emotions, not giving in to the
hysteria that was so fashionable amongst well-reared ladies.  Yet she
feared that if she allowed herself the luxury of expression, if she
gave in to her feelings--which had always been sharp enough to frighten
her with their ferocity and intensity--she might never be able to rein
them in.  Once she lost control, she was afraid of losing it forever.

"Here, let me help you with the hat pin."  Harriet guided the pin
through Constance's thick hair, smiling as she recalled all of the
hours her daughters had spent playing with Miss Lloyd's beautiful hair,
fashioning the waist-length dark silk into all sorts of fantastic
creations, each one gently undone by Miss Lloyd when the children went
to bed.

"I will write to you the moment I arrive," Constance said softly,
picking up her small reticule.

"And I will hold you to that promise."  Harriet led Constance to the
front door and down the outside steps in silence.

"Tell Melody not to pucker her face so when anything displeases her,"
Constance whispered, her voice rough.

"And also tell her that I understand why she could not be here today. I
understand."

"I know you do," Harriet replied.

"You are one of the few who understands how sentimental poor Melody is,
that she has never been able to tolerate goodbyes."

"When I am settled, you must come to visit me.  I wish you could be
there for the wedding, but it is all out of my hands ..."

"Of course it is!  I would never dream of impinging, me a widow, and
... oh, Mr.  Smith."

Joseph Smith seemed to appear out of nowhere.

"I will take good care of Miss Lloyd, ma'am."  He bowed, and Harriet
nodded.

"I know you will.  Let us not prolong this good-bye.  And I have no
doubt that we shall soon meet again, Constance.  No doubt at all."

Constance nodded, realizing there was no reason to remain.  It was time
to leave.  She glanced just beyond Harriet, where Betty and the
gardener Ben stood, along with old Conner the former butler.

"Good-bye," she mouthed, but before she could smile, Betty sobbed and
ran inside.

"Goodness, you would think this was an execution."

Harriet chuckled and gave Constance a final embrace.

"God's speed to you, my dear."

Joseph waited for a moment before helping Constance into the closed
carriage.  And as they rolled down the gravel path towards the ferry
that would take them to the mainland, Constance leaned out of the
window, imprinting every detail she could take in upon her memory.  The
gate, with its rusting hinges, the garden where she had taught the
children their botany lessons, the window to her room, now shuttered
tightly.

As the coach turned, Constance, caught off guard by her musings, was
thrown against Mr.  Smith.

"Excuse me," she mumbled, pushing her hat back into place and scooting
across the leather seat to the opposite side, as far away as possible
from the warmth of Mr.  Smith's body.

He said nothing.

Constance took a deep breath and closed her eyes, aware that this was
going to be a very long, long journey.

The roads were dry, the sea was smooth, and so they were able to land
at Southampton sooner than expected.

"Would you like some refreshment?"

His voice startled her.  Somehow they had managed to travel for hours
without so much as a simple yes or no.  If she didn't know better,
Constance might have wondered if English was Mr.  Smith's first
language.  Perhaps he was Russian or Italian, and used the almost
comically plain name of Joseph Smith in an effort to appear British.

She had seen that before, in Richmond when she was a child.  A family
from Germany had moved into town just before the war.  The children
were all born in the United States, and had no accents at all.  The
parents went by the name of John and Mary Jones, although they
pronounced their last name "Yo-hans," and often it would take one or
two calls of their names to elicit a response.  They had moved up North
when the war began, and she wondered sometimes whatever happened to the
family, to the bewildered-looking parents and the three children.

She jumped, and he seemed just slightly annoyed, "I asked if you would
be well-disposed to taking refreshment."

"Oh.  Thank you, Mr.  Smith.  That would be quite nice."

There had been a great debate earlier in the day as to whether Cook
should pack up some sandwiches for Constance to eat on the journey, and
if sandwiches were prepared, if extra should be packed for Mr, Smith.
In the end, Harriet and Cook agreed that they had never heard of a peer
pulling out sandwiches on a journey, and since Constance herself would
have a title, it would never do to have her munching on sandwiches,
spilling crumbs on her new dress.  The entire dilemma of a beverage
clinched the matter.  No matter what container they could use to carry
tea or water or cider, Harriet thought it would look as if Constance
was nipping brandy or wine.

As she looked at her traveling companion, she concluded that brandy or
wine, perhaps even whiskey, would not be such a bad idea.

He did not smile.  Other than that all-too-brief moment in the parlor
with Harriet Whitestone, Joseph Smith did not seem quite human.  He
seemed to be lost in thought, pondering something that had nothing to
do with the passing scenery.

The coach, rented rather than one belonging to the duke, pulled up
before an inn.  Constance loved that about England, all the cozy inns
and taverns.  In America there did not seem to be as many places on a
road to pause and rest.  Of course, her America was the Confederate
States, and there had been little time to build cozy taverns during the
war.  Still, she assumed that the entire North American continent was
simply too vast and too new to ever have the taverns that England could
boast.

She was about to mention that, about taverns and inns, and turned
towards Mr.  Smith, her mouth parted as if to speak.

He had been looking at her.  The moment she turned, he looked away, out
the window.

It seemed such a silly thing to mention, how very much she enjoyed
English inns, not worth calling his attention away from whatever
consumed him.  And then he was out of the carriage, and in an instant
he had her door opened, the stepping block in place, waiting for her to
descend.

Without meeting his gaze, she stepped down, all of her conscious
efforts focused on the task of not falling into the dirt and muck.  He
took her hand gently, and guided her by holding her elbow in his other
palm.  taught the children their go "Thank you, sir," she muttered,
averting her eyes as she stepped.  For a brief instant their eyes were
level, and then she was again shorter by at least a half foot.

His eyes were, as she had supposed, a strange shade of brown, almost
copper.

Again without words, he took her into the Golden Eagle Inn.  It seemed
a pleasant place, and she could not help but enjoy the simple act of
walking.  Although they had not been traveling long, every bone in her
body felt rattled and tossed, and her legs and arms were stiff from
staying in one position.

She was grateful, not for the first time, that the fashion for
exaggerated linen and horsehair crinolines had given way to the
less-excruciating bustle, allowing the act of sitting to go from active
pain to mild torment.  And although the traveling suit was somewhat
more embellished than she had been accustomed to--the ornamentation
consisted mainly of silk frog fastenings starting at the throat and
continuing to the waist--the trimmings were not as out-of-hand as some
of the ridiculous styles she had seen.  The collar was indeed velvet,
as were the cuffs, but they were of the same deep maroon as the rest of
the dress.

As a governess, fashion had made little difference to her, but the
small trousseau from her future mother-in-law made it clear that
clothing would soon become a matter of some importance.  Constance
sighed and looked down at her new kid gloves, another gift from the
duchess.  Melody had told her that most ladies went through at least a
pair of gloves a day, and that they should fit so snugly that the
outline of the fingernails should be plainly visible.

It was difficult for Constance, for whom so much of life had been a
matter of survival, to take the matter of kid gloves seriously.

The inn was rather dark inside, lit with flickering brass lanterns and
a sparse amount of candles.  From the fragrance, slightly animal-like,
she realized they were tallow candles.

The innkeeper, a man with no spare flesh except for on his nose, which
seemed excessive, gladly led them to a small parlor away from the
tavern room.  Instead of the hard settle benches the parlor boasted
several tables with more welcoming chairs.  There was no door to close
it off from the rest of the tavern.  The rougher patrons hardly seemed
to notice them as they entered, and the large woman pulling from a tap
behind the bar barely glanced in their direction.

Mr.  Smith held her chair as she sat, an odd sensation.  His hand
seemed to rest on her back for a few moments, as if he was deciding
what to do next.

The menu board was just beyond their table.  Suddenly, Mr.  Smith
brightened.

"They have fresh oysters!"  He seemed genuinely pleased.

"They do?"  Constance was reluctant to mention what had just come into
her mind, but felt in all fairness she should.

"Mr.  Smith, I do hate to say this, yet I feel I must."

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes at once openly on her.

"Please, Miss Lloyd.  Say whatever you feel compelled to say."

"Well."  She looked about to make sure the innkeeper was not within
earshot.

"I would advise you not to order the fresh oysters."

"Why on earth not?  Because they are a common food, found in the
poorest of homes?  Because they are not a fashionable dish.  Because ..
."

"Because there has been an outbreak of illness of late, and most
believe it has to do with fresh oysters."  The innkeeper walked past,
and she lowered her voice until he was in the next room.

The bluster seemed to leave his face, and he sighed.

"Miss Lloyd, I do appreciate your concern, but I am of a strong
constitution.  I grew up on oysters-whenever I was fortunate enough to
have them, that is.  And I am in a mood for them at present.  Please,
do not take this single bit of pleasure from my day."

She was about to speak, when she stopped and looked at his features. At
the same precise moment, they both seemed to realize the implications
of what he had said.

"Oh."  She glanced away, anxious to look anyplace but at the man for
whom diseased oysters were to provide the day's one bright spot.

"I did not mean that as it sounds, Miss Lloyd.  Not at all."

Still she could not meet his gaze.  Instead, she feigned great interest
in the menu board.

"Please look at me, Miss Lloyd."

Slowly she turned towards him once more.

"I believe we should be honest with each other," he began.

"I am here with you because of my friendship with Philip.  In all
truth, I did have some business to conduct nearby, but in general I am
here to see you safely to your new home.  So you see, this is neither
an inconvenience nor an unpleasant chore.  I am simply of a dour
nature.  This has nothing to do with you, Miss Lloyd, nor should my ill
manners reflect in any way on Philip.  I am the complete clod, the
socially defective escort.  And I apologize, as I'm sure I will be
required to do often, for my behavior."

Constance said nothing for a few moments.  Their eyes met, and a
strange understanding seemed to pass across the table.  Just before she
smiled, a small dimple appeared just beside her lower lip, and only on
her right side.

He stared at it, then realized she was smiling.

"Thank you, Mr.  Smith, for your candor.  And now may I be free to say
something?"

"By all means."

"If I were you, I would avoid the fresh oysters like the plague."

He returned the smile.

"Thank you, Miss Lloyd.  And do you know what you would like?"  He
gestured for the innkeeper to come to their table.

"Yes, indeed.  I would like the stewed chicken, please."

When the innkeeper was beside their table, Smith repeated her order,
and then, in a loud voice, asked for the largest portion of fresh
oysters they had.

"And how would you like them cooked, sir?"

"Not cooked," he announced.

"Raw."  Constance winced, and Joseph Smith was so amused by her
reaction that he failed to see the innkeeper wince just a bit as
well.

"And to drink, sir?"

"I believe the lady would like a bit of sherry, and I would like a pint
of ale."

"Very well."  He hesitated for just an instant, as if wanting very much
to say something.  From behind the counter the large woman in a great,
green apron called out.

"Horace!  Go on with ye, man!"  The innkeeper nodded and turned to
Joseph.

"My wife," he hissed, as if that explained everything.  And then he was
gone.

"So tell me, Miss Lloyd, what part of America are you from?"

Constance was taken aback.  When was the last time someone had inquired
of her past?

"Oh.  Well, sir, I am from Virginia, from just outside of Richmond."

"It is a beautiful land."

"You've been there?"

"Indeed I have.  I was thinking of importing tobacco a few years back,
and spent several months there.  In fact, I spent the vast majority of
my time in Richmond itself."

"Since the war?"

"Ours or yours?"

"Ours.  Have you been there since the war?"

"Yes.  As a matter of fact I was there the year before last."

"You were?"  She leaned forward in her excitement "What does the town
look like?  Have they rebuilt, for when I was there last it was still
in ruins!  The Stars am Stripes were flying over the statehouse, which
seemed so very peculiar after the Stars and Bars for so many years. Oh,
and did you meet anyone in town ..."  She stopped suddenly, then
blinked as if emerging from a dream.  For a moment she just looked at
him, her lips slightly parted, and then she drew her hand across her
forehead and sank against the back of the chair.

Joseph, who had been watching her animation with enjoyment, waited for
her to continue.  But she did not.  Instead she remained silent, an
awkward smile on her face as she looked down at her hands.

Something caught in his throat, something he had not felt for a very
long time, yet he did not stop to ponder the feeling.  He simply
watched her, as the tender light of the candles illuminated her
features.  Hers was a gentle face, a complexion that was almost
luminous, an expression of softness.

"Go on, Miss Lloyd," he urged in a voice so low, only she could hear
his words.

She shook her head.

"No.  It really doesn't matter.  I was a different person then.  I was
going to ask about some people I used to know, but the truth is they
would probably have nothing to do with me now.  I'm just a
governess."

"Not true.  You are about to marry a title, Miss Lloyd.  I believe your
acquaintances will be clamoring for attention then."

Rather than seeming pleased, she did not react at all.  Joseph looked
closely at her, the sudden sadness that seemed to overtake her.  It was
an odd reaction, he thought.  She was soon to be raised socially above
almost everyone in England, yet she did not seem to be reveling in her
new status.  He was disturbed somehow, and was about to ask her why she
was so reticent.

"So, tell me, Mr.  Smith," she said before he could speak.

"What sort of factory do you have?"

"My factory?  Oh, I manufacture dyes for textiles.  It's a new science,
really, creating artificial pigments.  There is such a limited amount
of plant-based dyes, they have become expensive and difficult to
obtain."

"Interesting.  So you must know a great deal about chemistry and
science?"

"I do, indeed, Miss Lloyd.  I'm working on some other projects as well,
and we're hoping to expand, using a new process the French have
devised.  Hopefully, it will make beverages safe to drink."

"Really?"

Constance was fascinated by the change that came over him when he
discussed his work.  He was animated, excited, his words tumbled forth
in a rush so swiftly that it was hard to hear each word clearly.

"Yes.  You see, I've always wondered why it is that so many people
become ill after drinking water that seems perfectly fine, or .. ."

"Or eating raw oysters?"  She couldn't help interrupt him, and instead
of becoming angry he smiled, a bright flash of very white teeth before
he continued.

"Exactly!  So I've been exploring the possibilities, along with
developing some long-lasting dyes."

"So what do you think the answer is?"

"Well, clearly disease can be carried in many forms.  But if we kill
the disease in water, kill it so that it does not reappear, well, we
can do the same with milk am other items.  It would mean a great deal
to most of the population to know that their diet was safer."

Somehow this surprised her.  What he was doing was not simply making
money, but actively researching and trying to solve a problem that had
led to the death of thousands of people a year.

"But what if they boil the liquids?"

"Ah, that is only a short-term answer, and doesn't' do at all for milk.
In addition, boiling water require fuel, and most of those who live in
poverty, especially the city dwellers, may not have access at all to
coal or wood or even a place in which to burn them.  If the) are lucky
enough to have a stove or a chimney, the; reserve the precious fuel for
warmth.  It's difficult to help these people, to stress the vital
importance or simple sanitation.  It's not terribly fashionable, but by
going into these people's homes and showing then what science now
knows, we could save hundreds or thousands of lives, mostly
children's.

"And then we need a way to safely transport milk to populations far
removed from the countryside.  We need to take care of the children in
cities--we must not ignore them any longer, turn our backs and hope the
unpleasantness goes away.  All of this talk of children and women
working shorter hours and fewer days is fine and well, I heartily
embrace and actively support these causes.  But if they are too ill to
walk, what difference does it make if they work eight hours or eight
hundred?  Their lives will be a misery, and a short one at that."

Constance needed to change the subject before his enthusiasm moved her
too much.  The complete passion with which he spoke was unlike anything
she had ever seen before.  As it was, there was something curious about
him, something about his expressions and the way he moved his body and
the way he spoke.

"How did you and Philip meet?"

He blinked, then took a deep breath, his voice more controlled now, the
lilt not nearly as pronounced.

"Ah.  At public school, and then we were at Oxford together."  He was
slightly distracted by her sudden change of mood.

"And where are you from originally?"

"I'm from Wales.  An anonymous benefactor supplied me with the funds to
attend school, so I was the contemptible charity child at school.
Philip was kind enough to ask me to his home for the holidays after
Michaelmas Term when I was but nine."

"He did?"  She seemed pleased, and Joseph was glad that he had not
elaborated further, that the invitation had been a direct order of the
duke, who felt that his rather spoiled sons could learn modesty from
the unfortunate orphan boy.  It was a safer lesson than sending Philip
around to the backstreets of London, and the headmaster had personally
assured the duke that young Smith was unlikely to slit their throats as
they slept.

The duke himself had told Joseph of the endorsement not long ago, over
a bottle of fine claret.  And although he had laughed along with the
duke, some of the old sting of humiliation had returned upon hearing
those words.

"Are your parents still in Wales?"

"They are, but they've been dead for over twenty-five years."

"I'm sorry."

He did not answer.

"Your parents are deceased as well, are they not?"

"Yes."

"So here we are, two orphans directed by fate and chance."  The
innkeeper placed their drinks before them, and Joseph raised his
glass.

"Shall we have a toast to ourselves?"

"That's a lovely idea, Mr.  Smith.  But I believe etiquette dictates
that we are not to drink to ourselves.  Others may drink, but we, the
honorees, should not."

"Well, then, let's be naughty and defy etiquette, shall we?"  His thick
mug of ale touched her slender glass of sherry, and she returned his
smile.

"To us, then," she nodded.

"Two orphans."

They both drank; his was a rather long swallow,; while she simply
touched the sherry to her lips.  And then the innkeeper was beside
them, and placed her chicken before her with great pride.

"I believe you'll enjoy this, ma'am," he said.

"The best dish south of London, I've heard many a customer say."

Somewhat hesitantly, he slid a huge pot of oysters in front of Joseph.
He paused, but before he could speak his wife's voice pierced the
air.

"Horace!"  It was at once a command and a threat, and he plopped the
bread and cheese on the table before ducking away, again muttering to
himself, "My wife."

"How are your oysters, sir?"  Constance asked after Joseph had taken a
first bite.

"Absolutely delicious."  He grinned, so very satisfied that she only
nodded.

"Would you like some?"

"No, thank you."

"Well, Miss Lloyd, that is your loss, I'm afraid."

"Thank you for your concern, Mr.  Smith, but I am quite satisfied with
my own meal."

He motioned for another ale for himself, gesturing to her still-full
sherry, and she shook her head.

It was a very large portion of oysters, she thought, and then tried to
put the matter out of her mind.

"Here, Mr.  Smith," she soothed as the carriage rolled over what felt
like a large tree trunk.

"I have some medicine in my reticule that is always effective for
dyspepsia."

Joseph Smith, his face a peculiar shade of green, shook his head.

"I am fine, Miss Lloyd," he rasped.  His need to take a deep breath in
the middle of the sentence somewhat weakened his proclamation.

His head was leaning heavily against the squab, and he was swallowing
at an alarming rate.

"Please, at least allow me to loosen your cravat and collar."  He said
nothing, but held a hand in the air.  Constance, not certain if the
hand in the air was a yes or a no, decided to take it as a yes, and
began to unknot the silk cravat at his throat.

He did not meet her gaze, and she knew all too well from her experience
as a governess that he was about to be very sick indeed.

As she worked, she watched his face, extraordinarily handsome even when
tinted green.  The silk cravat came away easily, as did the starched
collar attached to the fine linen shirt.

He took another deep breath, then closed his eyes.

"Mr.  Smith, I do not recommend you close your eyes .. ."

She did not have the chance to complete the thought.  At once he leapt
to his feet and pounded on the roof of the coach.

"Stop!"

The coachman somehow heard, and the vehicle halted just as Joseph flung
himself from the carriage.  They remained there for well over ten
minutes, the horses scratching the gravel road with their hooves, the
coachman speaking gently, soothing the beasts.  Finally Joseph Smith
reentered the carriage.

"Forgive me," he said softly.  A little bit of the color had returned
to his face, but he still appeared rather shaky.

"Are you feeling better, Mr.  Smith?"  With a tight smile that was
utterly disarming because it was so very unexpected, he slipped back
into his place beside her.

"And whatever gave you the idea] that I was ill, Miss Lloyd?"

She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing out loud "I just assumed
that was the reason for hurling yourself from the moving coach."

"It was not a hurl, Miss Lloyd.  It was a calculated descent."  He
tapped the roof, and they began to move again.

"Well, in that case, Mr.  Smith, it's a good thing we were not on the
Cornwall cliffs."

He chuckled weakly.

"It is indeed."  He shifted several times in the leather seat in an
attempt to get comfortable.  Although the interior of the coach was
well-appointed, the single seat was just large enough for two adults to
sit upright.

Constance watched him in his efforts, again trying not to laugh
aloud.

"Mr.  Smith, may I make a suggestion?"

He paused.

"In all honesty, Miss Lloyd, this is the second suggestion you have
made in our brief acquaintance.  I failed to accept the first, over
luncheon.  Believe me, ma'am, I would be a complete imbecile not to
seriously consider the second."

"Well, at the risk of sounding overly bold," she began hesitantly, then
looked at his expression, one of absolute misery.

"Oh, hang it all.  There is not much room, and you need to be
comfortable.  Why don't you just rest your head upon my lap?"

She had expected an argument, and was ready to list the reasons it
would not be improper, from the many layers of petticoats to the simple
truth that she had been a governess.  But he said nothing in protest.
He smiled sheepishly.

"Thank you."  And he placed his head on her lap.  After a few moments
his eyes closed, and his breathing became deep and regular.

How peculiar, she thought, very aware of the heavy weight of his head
upon her thighs.  No man had ever rested his head in her lap.  Never.
It felt warm, rather pleasant.  And for the first time in her life, she
felt protective of a grown man.

As he slept, and the thoughts swirled in her mind, she stroked his hair
from his forehead.  Odd, how such thick hair could still be so soft. It
needed to be trimmed in the front.  When they were at the inn, and he
had been discussing his work, a lock of hair kept falling into his
eyes, and he would toss it back into place with a jerk of his head or a
flick of his hand.  Strange, how a man's hair could be so very soft.
Before long, her own eyes began to flutter shut, but even in light
sleep she caressed his hair with the same soothing strokes.

"Mr.  Smith," she repeated into his ear.  Joseph had been having a
wonderful dream.  The details were vague, but the overall feeling had
been of warmth and safety and love.  In reality, he could not remember
feeling any of those things.  Yet, as he had slept, they flooded his
senses, filling him with a completeness he had never imagined possible.
There was a woman's voice, gentle and welcoming.

"Mr.  Smith," the voice repeated more firmly.

"Sir, I believe you had better wake up now."

Reluctantly he opened his eyes.  And then he remembered he had been
riding on a coach, had been ill on oysters--the very thought made his
stomach roil--and he had been sleeping on Miss Lloyd's lap.  He sat up
slowly, still disoriented and still feeling the effects of his
illness.

"Why are we stopped?"

Miss Lloyd helped him into a sitting position, and before he could
repeat the question, the answer was apparent.  He was staring directly
into the barrel of a pistol.

Joseph did not move at first.

"Are you hurt, Miss Lloyd?"  His voice was steady, and his hand grazed
her palm.

The man holding the pistol opened the door wider, the leather hinges
creaking.

"Step out now, both of ye.  Mind I can see your hands."

Slowly, Joseph slid from the coach, then he reached up to assist
Constance.  Her face was drained of all color, and their eyes met as he
eased her to the ground.  Almost imperceptibly, he winked.  And in
return, the dimple that appeared before she smiled deepened for just a
moment.

"Hurry up.  You can move faster than that."  The man waved the
pistol.

There were two men that Joseph could count without making his
assessment obvious.  From the corner of his eye he saw two others
working to loosen the horses from the coach yoke and tether them to
their own scruffy mounts.

It was four against two, never ideal odds, but even less desirable when
one of the outnumbered party happened to be a recently retired nanny.

The coachman was slumped forward on his seat, and Joseph could only
hope he was not seriously hurt, although from the rough clothing, outer
filth, and demeanor of the men pulling apart Constance's trunk, they
were most certainly capable of anything.

All traces of his illness were forgotten.  He had only one thing on his
mind now, and that was protecting Constance.  Very calmly, he reached
towards his coat pocket.

"Won't do you any good, gov'ncr."  Joseph noticed the man with the
pistol seemed to have only one tooth remaining in his head, and it was
yellowed and chipped.  He did not answer the man.

"If that pistol looks familiar, Mr.  Smith, it is because it was
removed from your pocket."  Constance spoke softly, although the man
with the pistol seemed to take great delight in her information.

Joseph glared.  It was indeed his pistol, one he had carried with him
in the unlikely event they were faced with any danger on the journey.

A thump from the coach caused them to glance up.

"Blast it all, Eustice!  The lady has no jewels, none whatsoever!"  The
short man atop the coach pushed the trunk off the roof in disgust.  The
trunk slammed into the ground and splintered into pieces, her
possessions--the new dresses and her undergarments--scattering over the
grass and dirt and knotty tree roots like so much refuse.  He yanked
apart the carefully wrapped wedding veil, taking apparent de light with
the way the fabric came apart in wisps shreds in his rough hands.  A
corset was the last item to tumble to the ground.

Then he saw the writing desk.  He ripped open the hinges, the sound of
splintering wood carrying through the air.  With a single blow he
kicked in the bottom of the desk, sending the last few sheets of her
mother's stationery into a mud puddle.  And then he broke the ink
bottles, which glittered even as they shattered into pieces, and
crushed the remaining quills into the same puddle with the paper.
Constance did not flinch.

The toothless pistol man joined in the laughter before he spoke.

"All right.  Enough of this.  Hand me yer money--all of it.  My fingers
are getting twitchy to try out this fine piece of iron."

Constance gave him her battered reticule, which he tore open, pawing
through her apothecary bottles, dumping them onto the ground where all
but the corks exploded into glimmering slivers.

"I have no money," she stated.  He said nothing, but turned to Joseph,
who began to reach into his coat.  The man stopped him.

"None of yer funny business.  Let the lady search for your wallet."

Two of the other men cackled in agreement.  Constance did not react.

"I said, get his money for us.  And I want you to do it now."

She took a deep breath and turned to face Joseph.  His features were
bland and composed, which made her feel better, as if they were not
surrounded by a pack of thieves in possession of too few teeth and too
many arms.  The only evidence that he was experiencing any emotions at
all was a vein that seemed to throb fiercely at his temple.

Gingerly, she touched his shoulder, then turned to the pistol-bearer,
lifting her chin.

"Sir, this is most improper.  I will not touch this man.  I am engaged
to another."  She straightened, and Joseph tried to keep his expression
blank.

But what the hell was she doing?  Did she realize what these men were
capable of?  From the stench of the three standing nearest to them,
they had been imbibing a beverage a great deal stronger than tea.  And
they had not been stingy in their portions.

The man with the pistol raised a straggly eyebrow.

"Gentlemen!  Come 'round, we're about to have a regular show here!"

The other three men gathered in a half circle surrounding the leader,
all grinning.  One man nudged his neighbor, then wiped his mouth on the
back of his hand.  Constance remained indignant.

"Please, sir, allow me to return to the coach."

"Touch him."  He waved the pistol.

"We want to see you find his money, and let's hope it's good and
hidden."

A couple of them chuckled in anticipation.

"No," she replied calmly, as if refusing a cucumber sandwich at high
tea.

"Miss Lloyd, I suggest you do as the man says, no matter how
distasteful you find the chore," Joseph mumbled from between clenched
teeth.

She shot him a venomous look.

"Very well," she hissed without looking directly into his eyes.  More
chuckling and snickering escaped from the men, who were now fully
entertained.

Hesitantly, she patted his shoulder again, then his upper arm.

"Lady, it ain't likely he has a money belt on his shoulder.  Look
further down."

Joseph saw her eyelashes lower, and for a moment he was surprised.  She
had seemed stronger before, less timid.  Then again, she didn't have a
gun pointed towards her back at the time.

Her hand touched his sides, his inner pocket when he kept his wallet,
but she kept on going, not pausing to remove the billfold.

Certainly she must have felt it?

Then she patted down his leg, and one of the men whistled in
appreciation.  Further she went, then she stopped for just an
instant.

She had felt it.  The matching pistol.  Again, he remained motionless,
neither his stance nor his features betraying any of the questions that
were racing through his mind.

Before he could decide what to do next, she rose to her feet.

"Sir, I feel faint," she whispered.  Her accent, which had been mildly
American before, was suddenly thickly Southern.

The men stepped forward.  Joseph made a motion as if to catch her, when
her arms flew out before her with swift assurance.

"Don't you move, any of you," she ordered coolly.  Between her two
palms was the pistol she had just removed from inside his trouser
leg.

How had she done that?

"Throw the pistol to the ground."  She pointed towards the leader, who
paused for a moment, uncertain as to what he should do next.  The
weapon in his own hand pointed downward, forgotten in his surprise.

"Throw it down now," she repeated.  Her voice did not waver.

He did as he was told.

"I know more of you must have weapons.  Please place them on the ground
next to Mr.  Smith's pistol."

There was no movement.  The men remained still, although the air was
heavy with tension.

"I suggest you place any remaining weapons on the ground, gentlemen."
Instead of weakening, her words seemed to gather strength.

"Now."

Again, no one moved.

With barely a blink, she raised the pistol and fired, shooting the hat
off the man who had only seconds before held her within his aim.

The men gasped, including Joseph.

How had she done that?  For the second time he marveled at how she had
pulled out the pistol he had hidden.  And that was either the luckiest
shot he'd ever seen, or the governess was an expert marksman.  Joseph's
mouth was open in astonishment.  He raised his own hands along with the
gang.

Constance cast a sideways glance.

"Oh, for goodness sake, Mr.  Smith.  Not you."

The coachman, who had been jolted out of his stupor by the gunshot,
also raised his hands in submission.  His expression was one of pure
fear as he watched her.

Constance gestured towards the coachman with her pistol.

"You may lower your hands as well," she sighed in exasperation.

His eyes met those of the gang leader, and a silent exchange of mutual
confusion passed between them before he lowered his hands.

"I believe it is safe, James," Joseph said to the perplexed coachman,
whose face was one of tormented bewilderment.

On the end of the semicircle of villains was the man with the red scarf
about his neck.

"Here, lady.  Take it."  The pistol on the ground was joined by
another, then another.

"Anything else?"  Her tone was calm, yet full of authority.

Clubs, chains, and some items she was unable to identify were added to
the pile.

"Mr.  Smith, is there anything here in this collection that appeals to
you?"

As if jolted out of his bleary bafflement, Smith quickly grabbed his
other pistol from the stack, then removed three others, tucking them
into his pockets and the waistband of his trousers.

His mind worked to come up with the next step, with how to proceed.

Perhaps if he felt better, if he had not eaten the damned oysters, he
could think more clearly.  Without warning, another wave of nausea
gripped his stomach.

He couldn't let the thieves see his weakness.  They would overtake them
immediately, weapons or no weapons.  He swallowed and kept his hand
steady.  That's all he had to do.  All that was required of him until
he could think of something else, or until another coach passed by to
aid them.  It was one of the better, well-traveled roads.  They
shouldn't have too long to wait until..  .

"Excuse me," he muttered, and ducked behind the nearest tree.

Four sets of eyes, in various stages of bloodshot fury, were now
focused on Constance.

Joseph took a deep breath after becoming ill.

Hopefully Constance had been able to hold the four men at bay.  Since
he hadn't heard anything to lead him to believe otherwise, he assumed
that all had been well.  They were just beyond the tree; he could see
her maroon dress.

Then he heard the other noise.

Very slowly, he stepped back behind a thick bush.  To his left were two
other men, even larger and less appealing than the four Constance was
holding.  By some miracle of foliage, they had not seen him.

"What the hell are we going to do?"  the larger man asked.

The second man held his arm up for his companion to be silent.

"I don't know.  But I just remembered something."

"What is that?"  the first man asked.

"It's been a good long while since I've had myself a lady."

The other one gave a short bark of a laugh.  Constance almost turned
her head, but she did not, and the two men crouched lower.

"You grab her legs, I'll get the gun," the second man croaked.

As they formed their plan, Joseph crept behind them.  They were so
intent on their discussion, they did not hear the rustle of leaves.

But the coachman, his eyes widening with horror, saw the two men, with
Joseph behind them.

Before the coachman could speak, Joseph grabbed a handful of the
thieves' hair in each fist and slammed the two men's heads together.
There was a sickening crack, and the shorter one crumpled to the
ground.

The taller one, groggy from the blow, took a powerful swing at Joseph,
who ducked.  Using his forearm, Joseph thrust the man's neck against
the thick tree trunk.

"Sorry," he muttered absent-mindedly to the motionless forms before
rushing back to Constance.

Where had he run off to?

Constance straightened her back, hoping her hand would not start
trembling.

The coachman made a peculiar sound, and for just a moment she
wavered.

The leader of the four saw her hesitation, and a slow grin spread
across his face as he stepped forward.

It came back to her then, just as it had earlier, before Mr.  Smith
stepped into the woods.

Cornered by the Union stragglers.  They had tried to take her.  They
had tried to kill her, or worse, but she would not allow them the
chance.  It came back to her, the terror of that moment.

But she had triumphed back then, ten years before on a dusty Virginia
road.  She would triumph now.

"Mr.  Smith," she called, her mind churning to come up with something.
Nothing else mattered.  Then an idea came to her, forming itself even
as she spoke.

"Please come back here at once."

Two of the men exchanged glances.

"Oh, dear," she sighed in feigned exasperation.  This had to work.
There was no other choice.  She lightened her voice.

"He's gone off again."

"What do you mean?"  The leader asked the question in a wary tone.

"It's just that he always does this before a kill."

The words took a moment to sink in.

"A kill?"  She wasn't sure who spoke, but the voice cracked just a
bit.

Shaking her head, she looked at their faces one by one.

"I am so very sorry," she whispered sympathetically.

"What do you mean by 'a kill'?"  Someone from the end asked the
question, and two others nodded.

"He's not quite right in the head," she confided.

"Every once in a while, well, he goes off.  The doctor in Switzerland
called them 'episodes," although after he witnessed the carnage--well.
He is now a patient in the very same sanitarium, poor man.  We can't do
anything about it, nothing at all.  They say it's because Mr.  Smith
was bitten by a rabid tiger in Bengal.  It always happens the same
way--first, the illness returns.  He becomes sick in the stomach, then
sick in the head, if you understand my meaning."

The silence lasted a few moments, punctuated by the sound of Joseph
becoming ill just beyond the trees.

"Lady, we don't believe you."  The leader stepped forward.  The men
were restless; clearly they would make a move.

"If he's so dangerous, why were you with him?"

Constance did not miss a beat.

"I am his nurse.  There would be some hope that I could control him,
but you, sir, destroyed his medication.  Do you not recall the bottles
in my reticule?  The ones you smashed?"

The leader cast an anxious glance to his left and right.  The men were
glaring at him now.  He looked at the coachman.

"Is he crazy?"

The coachman, who seemed every bit as frightened as the others, bit his
lower lip.

"I don't rightly know," he replied nervously.

"Only hired me for the day, you see.  But he did appear a mite angered
by the journey.  Tense, I would say.  And for a while he was riding
with a big man in a kilt and sporran, a giant from the Highlands of
Scotland, it seemed.  The giant left just before we got her.  He was
all riled up by the time we was to pick up the lady."

"Oh, the man with a kilt.  Yes."  Constance had no idea what the
coachman was talking about, but played along.

"That was another of his keepers, you see.  A big tall man?"  The
coachman nodded in agreement, "He's the only one who can control him.
He left when I took over; he needs a rest, and with the medication I
can usually sedate Mr.  Smith.  But without it, well."  The leader
swallowed.

"What will happen next?"  The voice with the distinct crack was almost
a plea now.

"His episodes are always the same," she replied in a matter-of-fact
way.

"He will emerge in a moment, claiming not to have been ill.  That is
when he is at his most dangerous, when he denies anything is wrong.
That's when he's most likely to spring."

"To spring?"

"Like a tiger.  It seems his physical composition was forever altered
by the tiger-bite.  He actually becomes part animal, with the strength
of a dozen men.  It's a fearful sight."

The coachman made an odd sound, and pointed just beyond Constance, his
face ashen.  The four men glanced at the coachman, and
Constance--uncertain of what had caused the coachman to react as he
did-repeated, with meaning, "Oh, the poor man's seen Mr.  Smith in a
temper.  It's a fearful sight, indeed."  Just as she shuddered, Joseph
emerged from behind the tree trunk, walking with forced assurance. They
all noted the blood on his shirt.

"Are you feeling better?"  she asked him without taking her eyes from
the men.

"What do you mean?"  He barked the answer.  What the hell was she
doing?  All but telling the thieves he was as likely to be ill on their
shoes as he was to shoot them?  Why didn't she just tell them all about
the blasted oysters?

"I am fine, Miss Lloyd.  I've never felt better.  I just took care of
two others beyond the hedges."

She noted the red stains on his shirt, grateful that he had managed to
disable the two additional men.  Another thought came into her mind.
She was not alone.  For once she was facing a crisis with someone
else.

With a deep breath she returned her full attention to the other men.
Again she shook her head slightly.

"Two more men, and still not satisfied?  Very well, sir.  I don't know
if I can bear to watch this time."

"Please, let us go!"

"Lady, we'll run now!  Please, for pity's sake ..."

Constance turned to Joseph.

"I can't bear it anymore, sir!  Let these men run free, and feed upon
my flesh if you must!"

She aimed the pistol towards him.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"  he roared.

Before he could ask anything else, all four of the thieves had taken
off into the woods.  And after just the slightest hesitation, the
coachman followed the thieves, glancing back with wild eyes as he
stumbled.

"Miss Lloyd, I demand to know what--" "Please, Mr.  Smith.  One
moment."  She then threw back her head and emitted the most
bloodcurdling shriek he had ever heard, ever thought possible.  Pausing
once, she smiled politely at him, and produced another banshee shriek,
the second, if possible, far worse than the first.

By now he was unable to speak.  Turning towards where the men had stood
but a moment earlier, he heard the distant cries of very frightened
men, growing more frightened and ever more distant by the moment.

"I think we'd better get moving, Mr.  Smith."  Then she saw the red
stains on his shirt and paused.

"Mr.  Smith, were you injured?"

Following her gaze, he glanced down at his clothing.

"Oh," he remarked.  Holding up his knuckles, he saw they were scraped
raw from the fight with the second man in the woods.

"No.  Not really."

"Mr.  Smith," she replied, then, with her voice lowered and her eyes
averted, "Thank you."

A strange silence stretched between them, yet it was not really a
silence at all.  There was communication, pure and wordless and so
powerful she took a small step backwards, as if that would lessen the
tension of the moment.  It did not.

"You're welcome," he said.

"Well," She straightened, her tone crisp and businesslike.

He smiled slowly as she stepped towards the pile of weapons, examining
them for a moment.

"Interesting.

I did not realize chains were still popular amongst cutthroats."

"Miss Lloyd ..."

"I do hope you did not pay the coachman in advance.  He did not earn a
full day's wages, and seems to be something of a coward."

"Miss Lloyd, please tell me what has just happened."

The blush crept from her chest to her neck, scorching its traitorous
path, revealing emotions she herself had not yet dared to examine.  How
could he know?

"I mean, Miss Lloyd, why did they run?"  Glancing down at the hem of
her skirt, she brushed off a clump of dirt before answering.

How could a single moment be meshed with such relief and stinging
disappointment?

"I told them you were a crazed murderer, sir.  I do hope you don't
mind.  All four of the gentlemen believe they have just escaped death
by the narrowest of margins, and that you are at present devouring me.
Unfortunately, the coachman seemed to feel more comfortable with such
unsavory company than with us."

The disbelief on his face became a grin.  Constance was about to look
away, but his countenance was so completely transformed by his
expression that she was unable to stop staring.  His mouth, which she
had noticed before as remarkably appealing, became even more so when
she could see his teeth.

Her breath caught as she realized what an extraordinarily handsome man
he was.  Not in a conventional sense, of course.  Not in the elegant,
polished way Philip was handsome.  Instead, there was a blunt strength
to Mr.  Smith that made him quite splendid, the way a magnificent
animal is splendid.  It wasn't his clothing she noticed, or his hair.
With Philip she always noticed how well-groomed he was.  With Mr.

Smith, there was a natural, incidental grace that could never be combed
or cut from a pattern.

She swallowed, looking at his eyes.  They were very brown, even in the
afternoon light.  And the rest of his face--the squarely defined chin,
the cheekbones that seemed more prominent when he smiled, the light
scar there, the way his hair swept back from his forehead .. .

"You are brilliant, Miss Lloyd.  Wait until I tell Philip."

As if splashed with cold water, she came out of her reverie with a
jolt.

"No!  Please, I beg of you, don't tell him about this!"

"Why on earth not?"

"Because .. . well."  Why didn't she want Philip to know?  Then she
realized the reason, and lowered her voice.

"Because it was not very ladylike.  The last thing I wish to do is
attract undue attention.  Please."

The smile fell from Joseph's face.

"Whether or not it was ladylike I don't suppose I could say, but I'd
rather be alive than pay strict adherence to protocol."

"Please don't tell Philip."

Before he answered he looked closely at her, the furious blush that
seemed to spread across her features, and he realized she was ashamed.
He would not add to her discomfort, although the realization that she
felt her quick thinking was in any way something to be embarrassed
about bothered him more than a little.  Finally, all traces of his
smile gone, he replied, "As you wish."

For a few moments they simply stood in silence.  She waited a few
moments before speaking.

"What should we do now, Mr.  Smith?  I wonder how far the next town
is?"

Up close, she realized that Mr.  Smith had freckles.  You could only
see them by looking very carefully, but they were there nonetheless.
The discovery that he had freckles surprised her--such a boyish trait
on such a very masculine face.

"I'm afraid I do not know, Miss Lloyd.  I have never been on this
road."

"Your hand needs tending," she said softly.  He swallowed, peering down
into her face.  Her eyes were exquisite, he thought.  They were clear
and blue and completely without guile, and he realized with a start
that he trusted her.

As far as he could remember, he had never trusted a woman before. Until
now.

She stepped back, and stumbled on her skirt.  Without hesitation, he
reached out and steadied her, both hands circling her waist.

Clearing his throat, he took a deep breath and allowed his hands to
drop from her waist.  The moment his hands were free of the warmth of
her body, he wanted to touch her again, to feel her.

No.  She was Hastings's fiancee.  Although he trusted her, it was
himself he did not entirely trust.  When he spoke, his voice was
slightly strained.

"I suppose we could wait here.  Another coach should be by soon."

"They may return, though," she said calmly.

"I believe they will get safely away, and realize they have been duped.
I don't think it will set particularly well with any of them."

"I believe you're right, Miss Lloyd."  His voice was sounding stronger,
and when he stepped away, he felt stronger still.

"The spirit of sportsmanship does not seem to be a big issue with those
men."

Joseph glanced over at the trunk and her clothing scattered on the
ground.

"I am sorry about your trunk and the lap desk, Miss Lloyd," he said,
nodding towards the splintered wood and muddied dresses and petticoats.
She looked at the mess, the shreds of her life now gathered in the mud,
the old and the new both destroyed.

He stepped over to the pile of clothing, ripped books, broken shoes.
Leaning down, he gingerly picked up a slashed blue skirt, then lowered
it back to the ground.

"I'm sorry."

The clothes did not bother her.  It was the desk, her mother's desk.
How she had cared for it, polishing it with wax, making sure the
papers--precious papers her mother had once touched--remained intact.
In one single instant, the years of caring and holding the desk had
been destroyed.

It was just a thing, she tried to remind herself.

"I really don't care," she said softly.

"Excuse me?"  Joseph stepped towards her, then halted.

"I said, I really don't care."  The words failed to convince her.

"I have to say that, you see."

"Why is that?"

"Because if I do tell you how very much I care, it still won't change a
thing.  Oh, not about the clothes, although I confess they were more
than nice.  It's that one can't invest too much emotion in a thing.
It's a mistake, because things can break or get stolen."

"A heart's a thing, I suppose," Joseph mused, watching her face.

"Well, yes.  I suppose it is.  But the desk, my mother's desk, well."
She stared at the wood, not seeing, just staring, recalling one last
image of her mother, one last memory to go with the broken wood.

"You'll always have her memory with you," he said.

"Your mother is not in that desk, she is in you, a part of you."

A frown creased her brow, and she looked at Joseph as if seeing him for
the first time.  He continued.

"We have both suffered misfortunes in the past.  This is but another."
He gestured towards the trunk and the useless coach.

"I believe we both are due for a patch of splendid good fortune, don't
you?"

"Yes," she stammered.

"Of course, but..  ."

"But what?"

"Nothing."

"Very well.  I believe we should leave this place as swiftly as
possible.  We have no other choice, Miss Lloyd.  As you yourself
mentioned, they may soon return.  Now, are your shoes suitably
comfortable for a brisk walk?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Very well.  Shall we proceed on to the next town?"

"The weapons," she offered, pointing to the pile of abandoned chains
and knives.

"Of course.  We can't possibly carry all of them.  Perhaps we should
bury them, in case the thieves return?"

He waited for her nod, and together they found a pile of leaves and
hastily covered them up.

"That will have to do for now," he said, taking her arm.

"Is there anything you might wish to take with you from the trunk?"

Constance thought for a moment.  She almost reached for a piece of her
mother's paper, but withdrew her hand.  He was about to speak when she
I straightened.

"Perhaps I should take a warm wrap."

"I don't believe there will be any need."  He smiled, wishing to touch
her, to comfort her somehow, but unable to find the words.

"The day seemed to be getting only warmer, and we are sure to be
settled at an inn by nightfall.  Thanks to you, the thieves did not
make off with any of my money."

"Still, I think a cloak would be helpful should it become chilly ..
."

"Miss Lloyd, please trust me on this.  Carrying a heavy cloak will be
cumbersome at best.  I wager we will find a town within an hour, and
then we'll have someone come back and fetch all of these belongings."

"How much are you willing to wager?"

"You said you are willing to wager.  I have agreed to take you up on
that wager.  How about five pounds, Mr.  Smith?"

He laughed, running a hand through his hair.

"Very well.  Five pounds it is, Miss Lloyd.  Shall we?"

And he crooked his arm, which she accepted.  With one last glance at
the coach, the two started down the unknown road, hoping the next town
was but a short distance away.

The first clap of thunder was only mildly surprising to Constance and
Joseph.  Perhaps it would have been more of a jolt had the gale-force
winds and pelting rain not already blown them off the road and drenched
them with ice water.

With the ominous rumble, Joseph was quick to remove his light overcoat
and place it over her shoulders.  But as the intensity of the rain
grew, it was apparent that the overcoat was little more than an
additional soggy layer of clothing, and that further travel was
impossible.

Her hair was hanging in thick, black ropes down her back, all pins long
since gone, her carefully placed hat abandoned when the rim became a
catch basin for rain, depositing it in trickles onto her shoulders. The
new traveling suit, once maroon, was now losing its color, the dye
washing away with the rain.  Even darkened by the wet, it was clear the
garment was fading.  He squinted against the rain, glancing at her as
they trudged through the mud.  Slowly he reached up, about to brush a
droplet from her cheek, and he halted before she could see what he
intended.

But she had seen the gesture, and turned towards him.  A small line
appeared between her eyes, silently questioning him.  There was no
rebuke or censure in her expression, only curiosity.

"Your dress is losing its color," he shouted over the din of the storm,
uncertain of what else to say.

Blinking, she looked down and smiled.

"I suppose it is," she responded.

"I am developing a synthetic dye made from chemicals that won't wash
away."  The moment he spoke those words, he felt like a complete idiot.
They had just been robbed at gunpoint, now they were hopelessly lost on
a remote road during one of England's rare thunderstorms.  And he was
discussing synthetic dyes.

Mentally, he not only kicked himself but bound his mouth to prevent any
further stupidity.

"Really?"  Her voice was loud enough for him to hear, but not shrill.
He hated shrill, high-pitched voices on females, but hers remained
mellow and rich, even as she raised her voice.

"I do wish you would hurry up," she laughed, shaking the hem.

"I'm afraid this one could use your help."

Around the slight bend in the road was a small building, and he
gestured towards it.  Together they ran as quickly as possible, heads
ducking against the rain.

The building was abandoned, but from the broken sign swinging in the
wind, it had clearly served as a tavern.  There was a musty, damp odor,
and a vaguely pungent scent of something very old and unseen and
rotting.  Great holes in the roof allowed the rain to enter almost
without any barrier, although a corner of the room seemed relatively
dry.

In spite of the gaping roof, the place was dark, as if night had
already fallen.

"Over here, Miss Lloyd."  He stumbled into a broken chair as he
spoke.

"This is rather odd, isn't it?"  Constance murmured, joining Joseph.

"Here is a building right on the side of the road, with no other stop
nearby, and it is completely abandoned."

He shrugged, rubbing his shin from the table he had just knocked
into.

"Not really.  Ever since the coming of the railroads, the roads are all
but empty.  They are in utter disrepair, as you can see."

"I still don't understand why we aren't making this journey by train
instead of coach."

He gave a sigh of resignation.

"Your fiance's mother feels the railroads are unnatural and possibly
sinful.  I'm not sure what exactly she objects to, the cars themselves,
the rails, or the speed."

"I suppose she didn't want anyone to accuse her future daughter-in-law
of being fast."  She smiled.

Joseph laughed.

"I'm sure it comes down to something very much along those lines. Here,
I believe I've found a comfortable corner, or at least not as
uncomfortable as the rest of the place."  He took her hand to guide her
to the area he had cleared.

"It just seems odd that the duchess had you fetch me.  If she is so
concerned with propriety and decorum, she could have simply sent a
ladies' maid."

"I thought that myself."  They settled together on the floor.

"Perhaps she wanted to get you to Hastings House as quickly as
possible, and she knows that I have business and thus cannot be
delayed."

"Oh, I am sorry, Mr.  Smith.  I haven't apologized for what an
inconvenience this has been for you."

"I shouldn't have said that."  His voice was so soft she could barely
hear it.

"I apologize, Miss Lloyd.  Again, I have proven myself to be a
buffoon."

"Of course you aren't!"  Her tone was so emphatic he jumped, and she
controlled her urge to laugh at his reaction before continuing.

"No, Mr.  Smith, you are not at all a buffoon.  I believe someone must
have once told you that you were, and unfortunately you believed that
person.  Well, whoever they were, they were most certainly wrong."

He said nothing, and she examined her skirt.

"Perhaps this will start a new fashion rage--the seeping gown.  Tell
me, Mr.  Smith, when will your new synthetic dyes be available?"

"Soon, I hope."

"How on earth did you get into the dye business?"

"Well, I was always rather keen on chemistry.  I read theology at
university, but always experimented in my rooms."  As he spoke, his
energy seemed to return.

"You see, on the Continent they are doing amazing things in science. In
Germany and France, even in your country, universities are turning out
men of science who are making life better for everyone, not just the
privileged few."

In the dim light he saw her nod.

"So I gather you were to become a cleric rather than a manufacturer?"

"Yes.  And many were disappointed that I did not simply find an
isolated parish, preferably in a remote part of Wales, and reform the
countryside.  I knew all along that was not the path I would follow,
but played the part of the grateful student until my education was
completed.  At times I feel that was dishonest."

"Not at all."  She paused before continuing.

"We do what we must to survive, Mr.  Smith.  This is not an easy world
in which we live.  And there can be little argument that you are
presently doing far more good by employing so many people, and creating
such useful items, than you would by preaching to a church full of
people who have no desire to change.  No, Mr.  Smith.  What you are
doing now is very good for everyone."

He leaned against the rough wall.  What had Abigail said of his
interest in science?  Middle-class.  That was it.  She had laughed at
first, telling him that it was hopelessly middle-class to dabble in
science.  He still recalled her hair, the way it caught the light.  He
had once called it spun gold.  Not very original, but that is exactly
what it had seemed to him.

It had been so very swift, the change in Abigail.  Looking back he had
seen indications, hints of what was to come.  She stopped finding his
interest in science amusing.

"Father says science is middle-class," she had repeated.

"He says if one must enjoy music, hire someone to play the fiddle, do
not do it yourself.  To play music with one's own hands debases the
entire aristocracy."

"Ah," Joseph recalled replying.

"But I am not a member of the aristocracy, not even of the middle
class, so I should be allowed to play the fiddle."  Abigail had been
horrified.

"You play the fiddle?"  When he had confessed that once he did, indeed,
play the fiddle, she had recoiled.  Not just that day, but forever.
Abigail, Lady Merrymeade now.  He had not seen her since .. . "Excuse
me, Mr.  Smith."  Constance had been speaking to him.  He hadn't heard
a word, not a single word.

"Forgive me, Miss Lloyd.  My thoughts were elsewhere, and I did not
hear what you were saying."

"If your thoughts were elsewhere, I do hope they were warm and dry."
Even in the darkness he heard the smile in her voice.

"I was just wondering what sort of family are the Hastings?"

"Philip's family?"

"Why, yes.  I've only met Philip, but have heard a few strange rumors
about his father.  Please don't repeat what I just said, it's just
that, well..."

"I will tell you this, Miss Lloyd: the Duke of Ballsbridge has shown me
nothing but kindness since I was a boy.  He has warmth and humor, and
loves his family very much."

"Is he at all eccentric?"

"No, not to me nor to anyone who really knows and understands him.  He
has a rather sensible aversion to society, and the means with which to
avoid it altogether.  And to keep society at bay, he has used his
reputation of eccentricity.  I believe he gets a great deal of
enjoyment out of pretending to be slightly mad.  He is all ease and
kindness once he feels comfortable with someone."

"And what of the duchess?"

Joseph was silent for a few moments, trying to decide what to say.
Should he tell her that her future mother-in-law cared for nothing but
climbing the social ladder?  That to her appearances were everything,
and that, in fact, he had been rather surprised that she had allowed
Philip to become betrothed to a penniless governess until he found out
that Philip had already been made a laughingstock by proposing to every
available female in the country, and one or two in India?

"Mr.  Smith, your silence speaks volumes."

"No, not at all."  He was too quick to deny, he realized.

"No.  You see, the duchess was not born to such an elevated rank.  I
believe that when she met the duke there was little likelihood of his
bearing the title.  It wasn't until relatively late that the duke's
father and two older brothers perished, and the title was passed to
the most unlikely third son."

"But that makes her acceptance of me all the more extraordinary," she
puzzled.

"She is very much aware that Philip could become duke.  And if she
wasn't born a peer .. . well, again that makes it all the more
extraordinary."

"How do you mean?"

"It is simply that those who have not always been so privileged tend to
cling more tightly to the rules."

"You are more than astute, Miss Lloyd."  Although he smiled as he
spoke, Constance felt an odd pang at his words, a deep sadness.  He had
been hurt in life, and whether he realized the depth of his pain or
not, she most certainly recognized his ache.  She knew him, she
realized.  Perhaps not the details of his life, the names and events
that led him to where he was now.  But still she knew him, intimately,
and she felt she would always know him.

They were both outsiders, not fitting into any one world.  She had been
born to privilege and was now little more than a glorified servant.  He
had started life in humble circumstances, and had elevated himself
through sheer work and ability.  As a result, they could move
comfortably in no single realm, always aware of where they had once
been.

Suddenly it was hard for her to breathe; her corset was too tight.
Probably because of the damp and the rain the fabric was shrinking.
That was it.

"Miss Lloyd?"

It was ridiculous, really.  She felt like a small child caught doing
something she very well knew was naughty.  But every breath was painful
and ragged, and she very much feared she would cry if she did not
gather her emotions at once.  It would just not do to weep in front of
a perfect stranger.

"Miss Lloyd?  Constance?  Are you ill?"

She shook her head.

"I just," she began, and then halted.

Before she could attempt another sentence, his arms were about her,
pulling her close.  He was so very warm, so very comfortable.  He felt
so very right.  She should, of course, stiffen, and tell him politely
but firmly that his actions were most incorrect.

When was the last time she had been soothed?  She could not recall.
Perhaps not since she was a child herself, a very small child.

Instead of reminding him of their proper places, she relaxed against
his shoulder.  It was a strong shoulder; somehow she wasn't
surprised.

"Shush," he whispered, stroking her hair.

"You have had a miserable day.  Just relax.  There."  She settled
further against his body, and his knuckles brushed against her cheeks,
now dampened by tears.  She felt safe and protected, and her eyes began
to close.

He began to speak, but she could not understand the words, hear the
soothing cadences of his rich voice.  He wasn't speaking English, she
realized in her drowsy solace.  It was Welsh, and from the rhythm he
seemed to be speaking poetry, long-ago learned words from his past.

It didn't matter that she didn't understand his words.  She understood
the meaning exquisitely.

His hold on her tightened as one of her hands, curled into a fist,
opened slowly against his chest.  And they both fell into a sound
slumber.

Now quite awake, Constance stirred, stretching her arms and opening her
eyes.  Yet could see nothing.  Had she gone blind?  Never had she been
enveloped in such utter, consuming black.  Her eyes were wide open, yet
nothing was there.

"Constance."  The man's arms clamped her.  She was unable to move.
Those men with the pistols.  The thief with the red scarf.

"Constance!"  The voice was firm.

"It is me, Joseph."  With an explosive sigh, he grasped her hand.

"Joseph.  Mr.  Smith.  We are at the inn, the one without the roof.
Please don't try to move around-there is no moon, and it's pitch dark.
Please--you can hurt yourself if you're not careful..  ."

Then it all came back to her, and in the blackness she felt her face
flush with hot embarrassment.

"Oh."  Her own voice seemed exceedingly small.

"Mr.  Smith."

"Yes, Miss Lloyd," he said with resignation.

"Do you think that perhaps, since we are very much alone, you could
address me as Joseph?"

"Where are you?"

"Right over here .. . ouch!  That was my eye."

"Forgive me, I'm just a bit disoriented."

"Perhaps if you ... my hand, Miss Lloyd.  The heel of your boot is on
my hand."  His voice was strained.

"Sorry."

"As I was saying, perhaps if you simply remain still, you will get your
bearings."

"Is there a lantern?"

"Not that I can recall.  And in any case, should there be a hundred
lanterns, I don't believe it would make any difference.  Everything at
this inn, including us, is either wet, soaking wet, or in liquid form.
Nothing will light."

"I see."  She settled beside him once again, grateful for the warmth of
his body.

"Do you recall the name of this place?"

"I believe the sign said "The Drainpipe Inn.""

"No, I'm afraid you're mistaken.  It's "The Watering Hole."  I've heard
so very much about this place."  He chuckled.

"The drinks flow like water."

She rubbed her arms, and he felt her motion in the dark.

"Are you chilled?"

"Just a bit, Mr.  Smith."

"Joseph."

"Joseph, then."  His first name gave her an entirely different feeling
from saying his last.  Joseph.  It was a soft, friendly name.  The name
of a gentle man, someone she could always trust.

"Bloody hell, it's cold," he mumbled to himself.

Then she felt him slump against her shoulder, then his shoulders move
as he laughed.

"What a dashing hero you have as an escort, shivering in the cold."

"As long as you don't swoon, I'll be content," she replied.

His arm again encircled her, but this time she did not give even a
fleeting thought to how she should respond.  Instead she settled
against him as if she had done so a hundred times, and would do so for
a thousand more.

"The least I can do is try to keep you warm.  Hopefully I can manage
that," he murmured against her hair.

She did not reply.  But in a corner of her mind, she wondered what it
would be like to go to sleep like this every night, for the rest of her
life.  And that thought made her smile just a little.

His hand smoothed over her arm, the warmth spreading throughout her
entire body with the gentle motion.

"Is that better?"  His voice was ragged.

She intended to reply yes, that she was much wanner now, that he
needn't bother with her comfort anymore.  But instead, all she said was
"Mmmmm."

He chuckled, a light laugh deep in his throat, and she moved closer,
her hand snaking against the muscles in his arms and shoulders.  Then
he stopped laughing.

They both seemed to hold their breath, each waiting for what would come
next.

"You should go back to sleep," he said at last.  And she nodded,
knowing that was the very best thing they could do.

Anything else was absolutely unthinkable.

As she closed her eyes, she tried to keep her wayward thoughts from
drifting back to the absolutely unthinkable.

"Hallo!  Is anyone there?"

Brilliant sunlight slanted into the musty room from the openings in the
roof, and bits of dust and dirt swirled through the air.  Night had
ended, and neither Joseph nor Constance had noticed.  They had been
awake for some time, but each still pretended to be asleep.  The
intimate encounter from the night before had left them both feeling shy
and uncomfortable.

"Try over here, Mike," another voice joined the commotion, the sounds
of boots crunching on damp twigs and debris, of hasty hands pulling
back the inn's rotting boards.

Constance opened her eyes and looked up at Joseph, to see his eyes
staring intently into hers.

And then he smiled.

Perplexed, she watched him brush off his trousers as he reached over to
her and gently swept a twig from her hair.

The sound of the men pulled her back to reality, and she realized
something else: The thieves had found them.

Very slowly, his arm tightened about her shoulder, as if that act could
somehow protect her.  There was nowhere to go, no place to hide.

"They might be over here."  The voices were growing closer.

Joseph shifted, and for a moment she thought he would rise to his feet.
Then she saw his free hand slide within the folds of his coat, and the
flashing glint of one of his pistols.  Wordlessly, he leaned toward
her, his own brows lifting in a question.  She nodded, understanding
his meaning, and he placed the pistol into her hand before reaching
back into his garment for the other weapon.

"He might be back there, Mike."

The sounds of more boot-crunching, a few garbled curses as the men
approached, seemed to suspend in the air with crackling foreboding.

Both Joseph and Constance cocked the pistols, his arm slipping away
from her shoulders, leaving the chill of the damp air noticeable even
as she steadied her right hand.

"Naw.  I don't believe Mr.  Smith and Miss Lloyd are back any further.
They would have made themselves known to us by now."  The man's voice
seemed to be retreating.

Constance glanced up at Joseph, and he returned the gaze, a frown on
his features that mirrored her own.

"Did Brown have any other ideas where they might be?"

Before the other man could respond, Joseph stood up.

"Gentlemen?"

The men entered the back portion of the inn with startling swiftness.
At once Constance realized these were not the thieves.  Both men were
well-dressed, in what appeared to be hunting tweeds and high boots,
with shotguns at their sides.

"Mr.  Smith, there you are!  You gave us quite a start, you did."

Joseph tucked his pistol back into his coat as he lifted Constance to
her feet.  The first man reached out and shook Joseph's hand
vigorously, then tipped his cap with a large thumb towards Constance.
His face was very round, with bristly sideburns and a broad smile, his
small eyes glimmering from beneath bushy eyebrows.

"Mr.  Crimmins, Mr.  Walker."  Joseph nodded towards the other man.

"This is Miss Lloyd.  I was accompanying her to her fiance's estate
when we were set upon by thieves."

"Yes, yes, we know.  They were caught by the local constabulary, and
were most grateful for the safety.  Only the hired coachman was able to
shed any sensible light on the subject.  The other men blithered like
children.  One even kissed the floor of the jail cell when we realized
who they were.  They found the other two by a tree with--" "Thank you,
gentlemen."  Joseph cut off the man in mid-sentence.

The man nodded once in understanding before he continued.

"You were lucky, Mr.  Smith.  Apparently the team that had you has been
responsible for a half-dozen other robberies, and more than one
death."

Both men eyed Constance warily, and the other finally spoke.

"Mr.  Smith, we have here a missive for you from Mr.  Brown.  Urgent,
he says it is, and requires your assistance immediately."

Mr.  Walker, the older of the two, with a great quantity of white hair
and a nose covered with tiny red veins, passed a thick yellow envelope
to Joseph.  He opened the red wax seal, and began to read.  As he did
so, Crimmins and Walker smiled uneasily at Constance.  Finally Joseph
was finished reading.

"Miss Lloyd," he said, his tone suddenly formal.

"These two gentlemen will escort you to a nearby inn, one with a roof,
I might add.  There you will find the contents of your trunk.  You can
rest there in dry comfort, and tomorrow morning Mr.  Walker and Mr.
Crimmins will take you on to Hastings House."

Stunned, she looked at all three men.

"What do you mean?  Where are you going?"

His voice softened, as did his expression.

"Forgive me, Miss Lloyd.  I have business to attend to in Scotland."

"Scotland!"  That was hundreds of miles away.  A different country, a
different world.

"Scotland," he confirmed.

"A coach is presently waiting to take me to the nearest train
station."

"Oh."  She couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Oh, I see."

"Yes."  Joseph stared at her, his eyes unwavering.

"Miss Lloyd, I wish you the safest of journeys, and I daresay I will
see you next on your wedding day."

"Oh.  Yes."  The room seemed to be spinning; everything was happening
so quickly, she couldn't even identify her own emotions in the urgent
rush.

"We'd best get on, Miss Lloyd," stated Crimmins.  Walker nodded in
agreement.

Joseph began to walk away, his broad back retreating.  She had one
startling thought: that she would never see him again.  And when she
did, it wouldn't matter.  She would be married.

"Mr.  Smith!"

He halted and turned, his expression now unreadable.  In two steps she
was at his side.  She put her hand out slowly, between the two of them.
They both stared at her hand.

"Thank you for everything," she whispered.  For a moment he did
nothing.  Then his hand reached for hers, not as a simple greeting,
but as something more, much more.  His fingers enfolded her entire
hand, covering them in warmth, holding her in his fierce grip.  And
after a brief, few seconds--too brief, far too brief--he let go.
Without another word, without another glance, he left.

"Well, Miss Lloyd."  Mr.  Crimmins clapped his hands once as if to gain
her attention.  Slowly, numbly, she turned towards him.

"Shall we get you a nice, hot cup of tea?"

Later, she tried to recall if she nodded, or thanked the gentleman, or
responded at all.  In truth, she could never remember quite how she got
from the cold, roofless shamble of a ruin to the comfort and down
coverlet and hot tea of the next inn.

As she tucked the blankets under her chin that night, she could not
help but think of the night before, when she had slept in the arms of a
wonderful man.

There was not a single cloud in the sky on the afternoon the coach
rolled up the gravel driveway to Hastings House.

So many impressions gathered in her mind, of the beautifully tended
grounds, of the immense tracts of trimmed lawn, of a pierced-iron
gazebo that glistened in the sun like a sparkling jewel.

Above all, she was impressed with the man in the tree.

She saw him just before her first glimpse of the actual house.  He was
an elderly man, impeccably dressed in what appeared to be a Napoleonic
uniform of blue and black.  He was quite alone on a single, bare
branch, as if he had spent so much time in the tree that no leaves
bothered to spring up on that particular branch.  There was no ladder
in sight, and she couldn't imagine how on earth he had managed to hoist
himself twenty feet above the gravel path.

Constance leaned out of the window, craning her neck to get a better
view of the gentleman.  As they passed beneath him, he waved somberly.
She returned the wave, and caught the shadow of a smile flickering
across his lips.

She turned to Mr.  Crimmins and Mr.  Walker, who were sitting on the
opposite seats of the large coach.

"There was a man in that tree!"

The two men exchanged puzzled glances with each other, as they had done
all too frequently during the journey, and then went back to reading
their newspapers and gazettes.

"The man was wearing a uniform!"

At that additional bit of information, only Mr.  Crimmins peered over
the top of his paper, then returned to his reading.

They had spoken few words to her, and seemed to be almost frightened of
whatever she had to say.  It was a most perplexing situation, one she
was glad was nearly over.

For, in spite of her anticipation at being reunited with Philip, she
could not keep her thoughts from returning, and dwelling, on Joseph
Smith.  The more she thought of it, the more she was sure that Joseph
had simply been trying to keep her warm.  Surely she had imagined that
anything else had happened.

As she gazed out of the window, seeing nothing of the passing scenery,
she was almost convinced that Mr.  Crimmins and Mr.  Walker knew the
exact nature of her thoughts.  For had they not arrived when they did,
Constance would have all but begged Joseph for a kiss.  Her face
flushed, and she saw the two men out of the corner of her eye,
impassive but observing her every move.

She had been unable to get the barest of information from the men,
from how they knew Joseph Smith to who they were.  Only one detail
seemed to have slipped from the mouth of the less-cautious Mr.

Walker.

"So we will be back then in time for the gillie's Ball?"

Crimmins had then cast his friend such a murderous glare nothing
further was said.  She longed to ask, "Who are the Gillies?  Are they
acquaintances of Philip's?"  But she did not.

The coach rolled on, and Constance was again struck by the beauty of
the lands at Hastings House.  And then she saw the house itself.

It wasn't a house.  It was a colossal mansion, larger than any single
structure she had ever seen, larger than the most sprawling plantation
in Virginia.  It didn't seem possible that so much marble and glass
could exist in the world, much less that it was all used in the
creation of Hastings House.

The setting sun bathed the mansion in a warm amber glow, as if the
house itself was a living creature.  Reflected from the scores of large
windows was a gentle pond just behind the house, for they were
apparently entering the home from the rear.

Constance could barely breathe.  This was where Philip was raised,
where he had spent his childhood years, where he had grown to be a man?
The very notion of living within those austere walls was alien, and
even more distant was the idea of thinking of it as home.

"Well, Miss?"  Mr.  Walker winked at Constance.

"Think you can make yourself comfortable here?"

"I... I don't know."

It was more than overwhelming.  It was positively terrifying.  The
coach followed a circular path around to the front.  She was relieved
they had entered from the rear, for the front was so ornate and
overwrought that she had a peculiar notion that she would be entering
the side of an elaborate wedding cake.  Every inch of the facade was
either scrolled or carved or embellished with marble busts of humorless
men with unfortunate haircuts.

And then they stopped.  After so many hours of being rocked back and
forth in the coach, sitting across from the ever-silent Crimmins and
Walker, at last she was to meet her new family.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and smoothed her
palm over her hair.  She wasn't clothed as she had hoped to be, not
after the trunk and its contents had been thrown about on the ground.
The only dress that had remained almost miraculously intact was the
hateful gray governess attire, drab enough to allow the wearer to sink
into the woodwork on virtually any occasion.  Even the laurel at her
throat, and the addition of new gloves, did nothing to brighten the
overall impression of general gloom.

"I can't do anything about it now," she muttered to herself.

An enormous triple-width front door opened, its frame embellished with
frolicking wood nymphs.  And from the door emerged an older woman, her
carriage erect, her shoulders set with regal confidence.

Her new mother-in-law.  This was Philip's mother.

As the woman descended the small marble steps, Crimmins and Walker
helped her from the carriage.

The closer the duchess got, the more Constance felt her confidence
grow.  There was an unmistakable softness to her face, a gentle smile
of welcome growing as their eyes met.  She was not a handsome woman,
yet her expression made her lovely.

Constance swallowed.  This woman would be her new mother.  This woman
would guide her, introduce her to the delicate balance of the
aristocratic world.  This kindly woman would be her mentor.

"Miss Lloyd?"  Her voice was as regal as her bearing, all confidence
and elegance and .. . "I'm the housekeeper, Mrs.  Garrity."

Before Constance could sink into the deep curtsy she had been
practicing, she stopped.  The housekeeper?

Her expression must have betrayed her confusion.

"The duchess has a headache, and is resting at present.  However, she
instructed me to get you settled into your quarters, and she will join
you for tea."

Two young men skipped down the stairs, and the housekeeper glanced
about for the luggage.  At that the coachman lowered her trunk, now
tied with rope to keep it together, a frilly undergarment poking from
the sides.  The young stewards looked at each other, then removed the
trunk.  One of them seemed to be on the verge of laughter.

"Oh, thank you," she uttered, baffled and ill at ease.

"Well, this is farewell, then," said Crimmins.  Walker smiled and
nodded.

"Oh, yes."  They shook hands, and Constance very much wanted to ask
them in for tea, to do something.  But that wasn't her place.

"Thank you so very much for escorting me," she added lamely.

"Not to worry."  Mr.  Walker shoved one of his hands into his
trousers.

"It was all Brown's doing, on behalf of Mr.  Smith.  Mr.  Brown thinks
the world of Mr.  Smith, isn't that so?"

Walker turned to Crimmins, whose face had gone blotchy with obvious
fury.

Walker flushed and looked down, scratching a line in the gravel with
the toe of his boot, and Crimmins gave Constance one last nod.

"Good luck, Miss Lloyd."

The two men clambered back into the coach, and within moments they were
gone.  She never did know who exactly they were, where they came from,
and who the mysterious Mr.  Brown was.

That didn't really matter.  As she followed Mrs.  Garrity up the front
steps, she took a deep breath and prepared herself to meet the
duchess.

Her room was surprisingly simple.

It was a relief when Mrs.  Garrity walked past the sumptuous,
overwrought suites and led her to a third-floor room with no
gold-flocking or marble tables in sight.  Instead, her room consisted
of a single bed, two chests of drawers, a small washstand, and a
writing desk.  There was one window covered with drapes of blue
damask.

"Tea is served at four-thirty," said Mrs.  Garrity.

"Downstairs, in the red parlor.  If you need anything, Miss Lloyd,
please let me know.  There's a pull beside the bed, and someone will
come.  Why don't you have a nice lie-down, then, until tea."

With a smile, the housekeeper left Constance alone.  An undermaid
knocked lightly, asking if she needed assistance in unpacking her
trunk.  It was a pitiful sight, her old battered trunk wrapped with
knotted rope.  Constance assured the maid that she could do it on her
own, and the young woman bobbed a polite curtsy and left.

All alone, Constance sat on the bed.

She had less than forty-five minutes before tea, but she was absolutely
ravenous.  When had they last stopped for a meal?  Mr.  Walker, she
recalled, had been eager to pause at a tavern for a drop of ale just
after noon, but Mr.  Crimmins had been insistent on traveling to
Hastings House as swiftly as possible.  She was left with the distinct
impression that Crimmins was more than anxious to complete the mission
of escorting her to Ballsbridge in out-of-the-way Yorkshire.

Was Philip in the house?  There had been no mention of Philip or his
older brother.  Was she alone with the duke and duchess?

There had also been no mention of the duke.  In fact, in her brief
sweep through the west wing of the house, she had seen no evidence of
his existence at all, no masculine touches whatsoever.

Sighing, she began the task of unpacking her possessions, most covered
with dried mud and dust, all but a very few torn and frayed.  The lap
desk was so far beyond repair she had left the remains behind, too
disheartened to carry the bits of wood with her to her new home.

Another thought crossed her mind.  She would have to explain to the
duchess that her precious wedding veil had been ruined.  What an awful
task that would be, for no amount of money could replace the beautiful
veil.

As she placed her clothes in the drawers, her mind once again focused
on Joseph Smith.  What an extraordinary man he was, full of such ideals
and passion and drive.  Where was he now, her Mr.  Smith?  Where was
Joseph?  Joseph Smith rubbed a distracted hand over his mouth.

Before him were a half-dozen glass vials, corked and arranged in a
wooden stand.  At the base of each vial was a label marked with his
neat printing.

"Balmoral.  3 September 1874.  Kitchen."  Another read "Balmoral.  28
April 1874.  HM's Chamber."  Other wooden stands were labeled
"Osborne,"

"Windsor,"

"Buckingham,"

"Sandringham," and "Marlborough House."  All had dates and more precise
locations for each sample.

In his London lab, where he developed his chemical dyes, a corner was
devoted to this one vital project.  Only one other person knew the
precise details of this work, and of course he trusted Brown
completely.  Others despised the Highlander, his high-handed ways and
his thick brogue and even thicker kilt, worn all year round, with heavy
wool socks and a sporran covered with fur.

But Joseph Smith and John Brown had recognized a mutual kinship the
moment the two men met.  Smith, the wealthy Welsh outsider, and Brown,
the private Scottish servant of Queen Victoria herself.  There had been
rumors of late, ugly pamphlets calling the widowed queen Mrs.  Brown,
or implying a relationship far more than that of servant and
mistress.

Joseph knew better.  John Brown, with his blunt, unvarnished ways and
wry humor, was devoted to his queen.  He had been at her side since
before the death of the Prince Consort, Albert, more than a dozen years
earlier.  John Brown would give his life for his queen.

And yet Joseph Smith and John Brown were both outsiders, and therefore
held in contempt and suspicion by most members of the so-called
aristocracy.  It was an open secret that the Prince of Wales despised
Brown.  On the other hand, the Prince had shown Smith nothing but
courteous--if distant--interest, and even genuine curiosity when it
came to some of his scientific writings.

Perhaps the Prince of Wales was not prejudiced against Brown because of
his Celtic birth or humble beginnings.  Perhaps the prince was simply
jealous that a mere manservant had the constant ear of his mother the
queen.

And the Prince could remember the sting of Brown's hands when he boxed
the Prince's ears.  No one could remember what transgression had
prompted the punishment--no doubt it had been justified.  But the
Prince still felt the flush of humiliation and anger whenever he saw
Brown, or even heard his name mentioned in passing.

It was generally known that Victoria held no high opinion of her eldest
son, and refused to allow him to even look at vital state papers.  Yet
she routinely asked her Highland servant his opinion on everything from
members of court and Parliament to the best place for her to pass a
holiday, and occasionally Brown was even trusted with state affairs. No
wonder the Prince of Wales hated him so.  Joseph paused, carefully
removing one of the delicate vials from its stand, tilting the contents
back and forth, watching the liquid swirl with sediment.  A dozen years
ago, Constance Lloyd had been a young girl in Virginia, about to endure
one of the bloodiest, most horrific wars mankind had ever known.

What had she been like back then?  Beautiful, to be sure, for beauty
such as hers does not come about overnight, but grows and flowers like
a rare bloom.  Resolute, perhaps, yet twelve years earlier she had not
yet been tested, was still very much a child living in cloistered
safety with her parents, both of whom would be dead by the close of the
war.  Also dead would be her sense of security, whatever shreds were
left after the conflict robbed her of the most basic of needs and
expectations and dreams.

So young Constance Lloyd had the wits to contact a distant relative and
secure a position as a governess.  Not terribly exciting, not even
compelling, but as a woman in her position, her move across the ocean
was a desperate grasp at survival.

How she must have dreaded the voyage, every wave carrying her further
from all she knew, from a world that had regarded her as a person of
position and substance.  And then in England, she was banished to the
governess' room, to a distant corner of the household with only
children and occasionally servants for companionship.

Yet somehow she had triumphed over even that stroke of fate.  Not only
had she gained the obvious affection and sincere friendship of her
employer, but she was now engaged to be married to the second son of a
wealthy duke.

"Damn it all," he muttered, securing the sample once again on its
stand.

He was exhausted.  Sleep had evaded him for days, ever since he left
Constance in the capable yet hardly friendly guardianship of Crimmins
and Walker.  It was not the two men that had been bothering him.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Constance, bright and warm and
lovely Constance, in the arms of his best friend, Philip.

Philip, whom he had known since childhood.  Philip, a man with a good
heart, but little chance to show the world the goodness there.  Through
the years Joseph had learned to rely on the rakish Lord Hastings to get
him out of minor, reputation-threatening scrapes.  And Philip had more
than once used his position as a solid member of the aristocracy to
further Joseph's career.  He knew very well that he was tolerated, even
welcomed in most places because of the unique combination of
hard-earned wealth and secondhand elegance.  Philip was nothing if not
elegant, which was all society really demanded of him.

There had been rumblings lately, murmurs Joseph heard that others
perhaps did not hear, or did not take seriously.

There were millions of Britons who wanted to see the monarchy dead.
There were pamphlets being circulated about the benefits of
republicanism, of the need for a cleansing along the lines of the
French Revolution the century before.

Some were openly calling for the removal, even the death, of the queen
herself and of her entire family.  There had already been attempts made
on her life.  All that was required was a clever anarchist, an outsider
with an ax to grind and the means with which to start the wheel.  What
was Constance doing now?  She hadn't looked down on him because he was
an orphan from a Welsh coal-mining village.  She didn't bat an eye when
she heard he had been a charity boy at school, or that he was in trade,
that he manufactured goods for sale and profit.  In truth, she seemed
most excited about his work with developing safe, disease-free
beverages for the underclasses.

Did she realize that, until very recently, he was counted amongst the
underclasses?

"Work, damn it, work."  He clenched his teeth and straightened his
spine against the uncomfortable back of the chair.

This was the most important task he had ever attempted.  Represented by
a handful of samples, no more than a few pints in total, was not only
his future, but the future of the entire nation.

Hopefully, when this new project was completed, England would be a much
better place in which to live.  Not for just a few, but for everyone.

Constance did not dare to be late for her first meeting with the
duchess.

Although there was not much she could do about her gown, she brushed
and repinned her hair.  The vision before her in the oval mirror was
that of a sensible governess wearing a hopelessly unfashionable
dress.

"There's not much I can do about it," she sighed at her reflection.
Then she went in search of the red room.

The problem was, just about every room seemed to have a great deal of
red in it.  There was a red and purple room, a red and green room, a
red and blue room--every color scheme imaginable was represented. Every
decorating style was also, unfortunately, evident.

The more she walked the vast, high-ceilinged halls of Hastings House,
the more she realized how truly atrocious the furnishings were.  They
weren't just unattractive, or overwrought.  Every room was aggressively
odious.  The emphasis seemed to be on size and color--every chair,
every table, every carpet was oversized and garishly colored, with no
apparent thought given to whether one piece of furniture would match
the rest of the room.  As a result, the house had no sense of being a
home.  Instead it was just a collection of rooms filled up with
expensive, ornately disagreeable bricabrac.

The artwork was equally odd, including several full-length portraits of
a very large man wearing women's clothing.  There was something
touching about this, Constance thought.  She had heard of a personality
disorder that caused a gentleman to desire nothing more than to be a
member of the opposite sex, therefore to dress as a woman.  Once,
during the season at Cowes, she heard of a man disguising himself as a
woman to gain entry to the ladies' dressing rooms, although that was
for a different purpose altogether than the burly man in the paintings
seemed to have in mind.

How refreshing that they did not hide the poor man's portraits. Instead
they embraced him for all of his faults.  Perhaps this was a good sign.
If she could learn to ignore the rest of the place and concentrate on
the people, maybe she would cease to be horrified at the lack of taste
so brilliantly displayed.

In short, Hastings House was absolutely appalling.  The only thing she
could imagine benefiting the place would be to burn it down and start
all over again.

Stunned as she was by the grand scale, she did manage to find a
maid--busy dusting a hideous statue of the man from the portrait in
what appeared to be a ball gown--and ask where the red room was for
tea.  With a shy smile, the maid bobbed a curtsy and showed her to a
room she hadn't passed before.  When Constance entered the room, she
saw a large man standing in the center of the carpet.  He was wearing a
heavily decorated gown, a nightmare of purples and greens, and atop his
head was a tiara.  It was the man from the artwork, the man depicted by
the gargantuan statue.

The shock must have been apparent on her face.  For at that moment she
realized that the man in the dress was, in fact, the duchess.

"Forgive me, your grace."  She sank into a deep curtsy.

"This house must be quite a stunning discovery for you, Miss Lloyd,"
the duchess said with obvious pride.

"You have no idea," she murmured, attempting to compose her features.

Satisfied, the duchess gestured to a chair covered with a pattern of
cabbages and acorns.

"Please be seated, Miss Lloyd.  I wish to look at you more closely."

Feeling like a specimen under a magnifying glass, Constance did as she
was told.  Yet she was grateful for the chance to gather her thoughts.
Between the house and her future mother-in-law, she felt as if she had
just been tossed into a hallucination, something from which she hoped
very soon to emerge.

"Well, well," the older woman clicked.

"I can certainly see what my son found so appealing.  Why, I would
hardly take you for an American."

Constance smiled sweetly.

"What a lovely compliment."  She had heard that before from Englishmen,
as if the highest praise possible was to be mistaken for one of them.

"Well, well.  But your hips, Miss Lloyd.  They are a bit of a
disappointment."

"Your grace?"

"Yes, well.  I don't suppose that can be helped.  Now, have you ever
had children before?"

"Your grace, I've never been married!"

"Yes, but we both know that marriage often has very little to do with
bearing children.  So I take it that you have not ever been with
child?"

"Of course not!"

"Pity.  Then we would know for certain whether you are barren or
not."

At that Constance said nothing.  What could she possibly add?  She
watched as the duchess pivoted in the center of the room and walked in
exaggerated steps to a large settee.  With her left arm she flipped the
train of her gown out of the way, then descended onto the settee.  For
several long moments she adjusted the yards of fabric of her gown, and
then she looked once again at Constance.

Her face was a study in folds.  Her small eyes were folded between her
cheeks and brows.  Her mouth, large and wide, was set above her chin,
bracketed by more folded skin.  But it was her hair that fascinated
Constance.  There was not only an excessive amount of it, but it was
bright red, far too red for any human being to have grown on their own.
Clearly the red had been carefully assisted.

"Ah, I see you are admiring my coronet."  The duchess smiled.

"It is the ducal coronet, well over fifty years old.  As you can see,
it is made of gold and diamond strawberry leaves.  I routinely wear the
crown in case of an upcoming coronation.  I alone will be accustomed to
the weight of the coronet when it comes time for the Prince of Wales to
become king."

It had happened again.  The duchess had managed to render Constance all
but speechless.  The duchess waited expectantly for a reply, and
finally Constance rallied.

"I'm afraid I do not have a crown, your grace."

"Don't be ridiculous.  Only a duke or a duchess is allowed to wear one,
Miss Lloyd.  It would be most incorrect for you to wear one.  And even
a tiara should never be worn by an unmarried lady.  It is both bold and
improper."

"I will keep that in mind."

"See that you do.  Now, why are you not wearing one of the gowns I sent
you?"

"Because we were robbed at gunpoint on the road here."

"

"We'?  Who is 'we'?"

"I was traveling with Mr.  Smith, Philip's friend.  Where is he, by the
way?"

"How should I know?  Poking about the Welsh countryside, I should
imagine, or washing the coal dust out of his hair."

"Philip, with coal dust in his hair?"

"Good heaven's, no!"  With that, the duchess laughed, a husky roll of a
chuckle.  Constance noticed the older woman's hands, large hands--like
those of a farmer or a butcher.  She had never seen such large hands on
a woman, and involuntarily she glanced down at the duchess's feet.

They were a matched set.

"Your grace, I might as well tell you now--the veil you so kindly sent
to me was destroyed during the robbery."

The duchess looked at her as if she had just sprouted a feather duster
on top of her head.

"Whatever are you talking about?"

"The lace veil, your grace.  It was in with the clothing you sent to
me, a beautiful cream lace veil."

"I remember no such thing.  Oh.  Oh, my."  She began to laugh, an
alarming sound, almost ominous, as if a force of nature was about to be
unleashed.

"The lace?  Miss Lloyd, that was a tablecloth.  A machine-made
tablecloth, at that.  I ran short of tissue, and used it to pack the
clothes.  Why on earth would I have sent you a fine lace veil?  Oh, my,
this is amusing."

Constance simply sat and watched the duchess as her face turned red
with the enjoyment of it all.

"Well, would you like some tea, Miss Lloyd?"

"Yes.  Thank you."

"It's over there on the silver tray.  I take mine with two spoons of
sugar and a bit of cream."

Still smiling, Constance rose and poured the duchess a cup of tea,
preparing it precisely as the duchess had requested, yet longing to add
six spoonfuls of sugar and a large splash of cream.

"And I would like a sweet as well," the duchess added.

Returning to the tray, Constance put a few of the tiny cakes on a small
plate and brought it over to the duchess.

"And a sandwich.  Cress."

Once again at the tray, she carefully selected a cress sandwich, adding
a tomato sandwich for good measure, and brought it over to the duchess.
Quickly, she ate the other cress sandwich out of pure hunger.  If she
was not offered anything, that would be her only meal until dinner.

"You may pour yourself some, if you wish."

"Thank you, your grace," she said with relief.

The duchess nodded, and took a sip of the tea, holding the small cup in
her massive, chapped hand.  Although she said nothing, she smiled in
contentment when she tasted the tea, prepared to her exact
specifications.

"So, Philip should be returning by the end of the week."

"The end of the week?"  Constance asked.

"Where is he?"

"I sent him on a campaign tour of Ballsbridge."

Constance did not mention that they were within a few miles of the
village of Ballsbridge.

"Why doesn't he come back here at the end of each day?"

"Because, my dear, he needs to pay attention to his politics.  He needs
to work on his speeches, to come up with clever ideas that will entice
the rabble to vote for him, to practice standing still for long periods
of time, shaking hands with common people, that sort of thing.  And I
did want you and I to have some time alone to get to know each other.
Before I forget, come over here."

Constance did as she was told.  The duchess opened a drawer and handed
her a small box.

"This is for you, Miss Lloyd."

"Why, thank you."

"It's your engagement ring."

"My engagement ring?  Perhaps I should wait for Philip to give it to
me."

"Nonsense.  You might as well get used to it.  Try it on."

Constance opened the black velvet box.  Inside was one of the strangest
things she had ever beheld.  The center was a yellow stone the size of
a small doorknob, and the setting seemed to be of serpents, or perhaps
lizards.

"Oh.  How lovely," she said.

"Of course it's lovely.  I picked it out myself-Philip has no time for
such things.  It's in the new style, very Italian."

"I suppose this means that you and I are engaged, your grace,"
Constance said with a smile.

"Nonsense!  I am already married.  In addition, I am a woman, therefore
we could never become engaged.  And I do believe I am too old for you,
Miss Lloyd.  No, you and Philip are engaged.  We will set a date soon,
perhaps before the elections."

"That will be wonderful."  Slowly she slipped the ring on her left
ring finger.  It fit perfectly, she realized with a sinking heart.  She
returned to the tea tray.

"Yes, well.  Was there not another cress sandwich on the tray?"

"I'm sorry," Constance confessed.

"I ate the other cress sandwich."

"You ate my cress sandwich?"

"Well, I ..."  She realized the futility of arguing.

"Yes, your grace."

"Well, we will have to smooth out some of your rough spots before you
can greet society.  Come back over here, so that I can see you."

Constance returned to the chair, her own cup of tea in her hand.  She
swallowed, hoping that she could control the trembling so that the cup
and saucer wouldn't clank together.

All in all, she realized she had felt more comfortable with the armed
thieves than alone with the duchess.

"Well," the duchess said, with no apparent prompting.

"This has been a treat.  You may go now.  We dine at seven thirty, and
please be prompt."

Rising, Constance curtsied and left the salon.  Whatever happened next,
the worst was surely over.  Dinner was bound to be a vast
improvement.

By the time the dinner hour arrived, Constance was so hungry she
recalled with longing the single watercress sandwich she had eaten at
tea.  At least the physical discomfort kept her mind off other more
disturbing topics, such as her less-than-glorious first encounter with
Philip's mother.  Such as her inability to forget Joseph Smith.

Just as she was about to make herself as presentable as possible, there
was a light knock on her door.  At her answer, one of the seemingly
endless supply of silent housemaids entered the room.

"The duchess sends you this gown for dinner, Miss.  There are guests
tonight, and she felt you would be more suited in evening attire."

"How very kind of her."  She smiled to the maid, who hesitated before
returning the smile.  The gown was laid upon the bed, and although it
was far more elaborate than anything Constance would have selected, it
was most certainly the height of fashion, and obviously embarrassingly
expensive.  The deep-blue velvet bodice, almost daringly off the
shoulder, was trimmed with rich ivory lace; the lush skirt was hemmed
with satin of the same color as the ivory lace.  The maid also
displayed all the necessary undergarments, silk stockings, delicate
slippers, and even more impossibly delicate kid gloves with tiny
mother-of-pearl buttons.

"Where on earth did this come from?"  Constance gasped when she had
recovered her voice.

"I don't rightly know, Miss.  Do you need assistance with your dress or
hair?"

For a moment Constance just stared at the young housemaid.  It was such
a very peculiar feeling after all these years to actually have a
servant ask what was required.  She was so used to being in the maid's
position, she simply smiled.

"Thank you.  I believe I can manage."

After the maid left she was glad for the privacy.  It allowed her to
savor the sensation of touching new clothes, of feeling the silk
stockings against her leg-so very different from the thick black cotton
or wool stockings she was accustomed to.  And although the gown was,
indeed, ornate, it was also beautiful.

To match the glory of the gown she took extra care with her hair,
brushing it to a dark, high gloss and arranging a few curls in artful
disarray.  Now she was ready to face whatever was waiting below, to
meet whatever the evening held.

Following the sound of voices, she was able to locate the dining room.
Stepping over the threshold, sidestepping a massive palm potted in a
ceramic walrus head, she was greeted by at least two dozen pairs of
eyes focused on her.

This wasn't a simple dinner gathering.  This was a banquet.  And at
once she realized she was there as either the guest of honor, or the
main course.

Straightening her spine, she decided that she would not, under any
circumstance, allow herself to be consumed with even the most superior
quality of claret.

"Good evening," she said clearly, adjusting her vision to the
flickering candlelight.  The men were wearing subdued dinner jackets,
and the women were bedecked in evening gowns and jewels, including an
impressive assortment of diamond dog-collars and glinting earbobs.

"Why, Miss Lloyd, how very lovely you are this evening," said the
duchess.  There was no false sincerity in her voice.

Constance was then introduced to the entire gathering, the men standing
by their chairs, the women inclining their heads.  Everyone seemed to
be a Lord or a Lady or a Sir, and their last names sounded very much
like the secondary characters from a fashionable country-house play.

The duchess, her gigantic self corseted into an approximate hourglass
shape, had traded her coronet for a more simple tiara that resembled
nothing so much as a fireplace fender.  She then turned to the guests
after the introductions were complete, and with a sweeping gesture of
her large hand, said with an indulgent smile, "She's an American, you
know."

There was a smattering of agreement, polite murmurs of understanding,
as if the simple fact of her being an American would excuse any
outlandish behavior, explain any eccentric mannerism or lapses of good
taste.

It was then that she noticed Philip was there.  He rose to his feet, a
vague smile on his face.  Yet he seemed hesitant, and he kept glancing
over at his mother as if for some signal of approval, for some cue as
to what he should do next.  As usual, he was splendidly dressed in a
black dinner jacket, his whiskers freshly powdered and brushed, his
silk cravat tied to perfection and fastened with a single pearl.

"Constance," he said at last.

"Please sit by me."  He walked over to her, all eyes following his
every move, and placed a kiss upon her cheek.

Constance took Philip's arm, trying to ignore the stares and whispers
of the other guests as he led her to her place and she attempted to
gather her thoughts and emotions.  Philip's presence was not only
unexpected, it failed to reassure her in any way.

"Lovely weather," she said to the crowd as Philip held her chair. There
was no response other than one or two automatic smiles.

It was intolerable, this silence.  Anything was better than the
wordless stares, so she forced herself to continue in a tone so light
and airy, she very nearly fooled herself.

"Where I grew up, it is still too warm for comfort at this time of
year."

No one picked up the thread of her conversation, so she unfolded her
napkin and hoped very much that someone, anyone, would speak.

Why wasn't Philip, who clearly saw her discomfort, making any effort to
help her out?  But he was too intent on watching the duchess.

There was a heavy silence before a bald man at the end of the table
spoke.

"This is September."

Well, that was something to work with at any rate, "Yes," Constance
nodded.

"Indeed, it is."

The bald man beamed.

"Yes," he announced with more authority.

"This is most certainly September.

And just about the middle of the month, if I'm not mistaken."

A few of the guests agreed that yes, it was indeed the second Thursday
in September.  After the flurry of excitement concerning the
confirmation of the date, the table again lapsed into silence.

"Miss Lloyd," said a gentleman at the far end of the table.

"I myself have visited the United States."

"Have you?  I do hope your visit was most enjoyable, sir."

"Oh, yes!  Indeed it was, although I do not believe I have ever been in
a place where everything is so, well.  How should I phrase it?"

"Rough?"  offered one woman.

"Unrefined?"  suggested another.

"Brutally savage?"  the first woman volunteered with expectant glee.

"No, no!  Not at all!  Miss Lloyd," the man grinned, "what I mean is
that everything is vast.  The lakes are so large, one cannot see from
shore to shore.  The rivers are so wide it takes hours to cross by
boat, the farms contain such massive tracts of land that it would take
a man days to ride from boundary to boundary.  Why, some of the homes
are so large, one can literally get lost."

"I understand, sir," Constance admitted.

"But you see, I am from Virginia.  As Confederates, we prided ourselves
in keeping everything to a more manageable scale.  Unfortunately, that
seemed to have extended itself to our army as well--quite small enough
to be manageable.  Not large enough to win."

A few diners smiled, and one man made a sound that seemed very much
like a chuckle.

"Pity your side lost the war," muttered a man with an enormous walrus
mustache.

"I always felt the Confederate States had more of an English ideal
behind them.  You know, the homes, the manners.  Much less appalling
than the North."

Some of the other men nodded in agreement, and the women parroted the
men's gestures.  One graying man at the end of the table added a lusty
"Here, here," as if they were in the center of a Parliamentary
debate.

"You must have been very young, Miss Lloyd, when the war concluded.
That must have been a very lucky thing for you, to have been young
enough to have escaped most of the brutality," the man with the
mustache said.

"I thank you for the compliment on my youth."  Constance leaned back as
a servant poured wine in her goblet.

"I was quite old enough to be aware of the war, and unfortunately my
father's lands often served as the battlefield."

"How frightful," breathed a lady with feathers in her hair.

"I do hope, Miss Lloyd, that no one in your family suffered too
dreadfully."

"Well," she said quietly.

"That was a long time ago, a long, long time ago."

There was again silence as a manservant offered her the soup tureen.
She made a great show of watching the creamy soup splash into her bowl,
hoping that at any time someone at the vast table would speak up and
change the subject.

"You poor dear," said the woman with the feathers.

Philip was staring at her with an expression of surprise, as if he
hadn't known about her experiences in the war.  It was as if he hadn't
seen her before, the oddly intense set of his well-arranged features.

"Philip," said the duchess.

"You are slouching.  Please sit straight."

At that, most of other guests straightened themselves as well, poking
at their food or sipping the wine.  She had to say something, anything
to relieve the heavy silence.

"Well, I must admit that being in England at the dawn of her glorious
empire is a far sight more enjoyable than Virginia at the close of the
war," she said crisply.

"I should think so," agreed the duchess.

"Tell us, Miss Lloyd, what do you like the best about our nation?"  The
bald gentleman smiled encouragingly.

"I must confess, I do love the notion of nobility and royalty."

"I am astonished," replied the bald gentleman.

"I thought all Americans cherished their democracy.  I've been in more
than one row at my club with visiting Yanks, and they all profess to
scorn our titles."

"Oh, but that is not true, not at all.  We envy the order they give
society.  There is something comforting in knowing exactly how many
degrees of supremacy any given individual may claim.  In reality,
Americans are every bit as class-conscious as the English, but since we
have no one to head up the establishment, no king or queen, no prince
or duke, the social seasons can get quite messy and confusing."

"I say," chimed in a woman who had previously been silent.

"Do you remember the fuss made over the Prince of Wales when he visited
America in sixty?  Why, I understand that the women all but threw
themselves at HRH."

"And didn't a floor collapse with the weight of the crush?"  the woman
with the feathers added cheerfully.

"Indeed, it did."  Constance raised her eyebrows.

"And the crush was most certainly composed of society women and their
eligible daughters.  So now you know our sullied secret at last--what
the grandchildren of the revolution really desire."

The man with the mustache gave a perplexed grunt.

"And, my dear Miss Lloyd, what would that be?"

"Why, we all want nothing more than the chance to become the Queen of
England."  She took a drink of her water.

"And as Americans, tainted by democracy, we still believe that we
should all have a fair crack at the title."

At first no one responded.  Then the bald man began to chuckle, his
face turning an alarming shade of crimson.  At that the other diners
began to join in, the men with their low, cigar-graveled tones, the
women in tittery giggles.

Philip, assured that his mother seemed pleased, grinned at last.

"And what about the Confederacy?  Did you all wish to become sovereign
in the Southern states as well?"

"Well," she began thoughtfully, "I do believe that was our main
problem."

"What was that?"  Philip could barely restrain his smile, and the other
guests, spoons and forks poised in midair, awaited her answer.

"Because we all firmly believed that, as Southerners, we already were
royalty.  It led to frightful confusion, as one can imagine."

The distinctive sounds of general amusement and approval clucked about
the table.

Good God, she thought to herself.  This is an absurdly easy group to
entertain.

And Philip.  In other gatherings he had seemed so in command.  Now he
looked to his mother for everything, even in how to respond to her, his
own fiancee.

"Tell me, Miss Lloyd," boomed a round man with an absurdly drooping set
of whiskers, his hair parted in the middle and combed flat with a
thick layer of macassar oil.

"Did you ever hear the famous 'rebel yell'?"

"In all honesty, sir, I believe the same yelp was offered at that New
York ball where the Prince of Wales was introduced.  So the yell was,
in fact, developed by society mamas with eligible daughters, not
fighting men, although the purpose of the sound--to terrify the
enemy--remained the same."

And so the meal passed, and Constance remained the center of attention,
Philip smiling and prodding his fiancee to perform.  And she did; she
put on quite a show, she thought, with more meaningless chatter than
she had ever been forced to employ in the nursery.  Philip seemed
delighted with her.

The old duke was nowhere in sight, search as she did through the other
faces basking in the dull orange glow of the candlelight, wondering if
she had somehow missed her future father-in-law's name in the rush of
the introductions.  By the close of the evening she had discovered that
the bloated young man at the end of the table was Philip's older
brother, the Viscount Cavendish.  Everyone at the table, however, just
called him Dishy.

And she also discovered, by the thin-lipped expression on the face of
the duchess, that she had gone too far, that she had made too much of a
spectacle of herself and drawn too much attention away from the
duchess.  She had no doubt that, by the next day, the duchess would
inform her of her errors.

They had a brief interlude together, Constance and Philip.  The guests
had left, and the duchess had already retired.

Viscount Cavendish had also gone to his room, but in truth he had
retreated earlier, if not physically then in spirit.  As far as she
could tell, he had not uttered a single word, pleasant or unpleasant,
throughout dinner, nor made a single comment either for or against any
topic.

The duchess and her eldest son seemed disappointed in the way the
evening had progressed.  If Philip hadn't noticed, Constance most
certainly had.

"I'm not sure I have won admirers in either your mother or your
brother," she admitted as the servants began their silent bustling and
cleaning up.

"Nonsense, Constance.

"You have conquered them all."  He lit a cigar from the fireplace and
puffed heartily, settling down into a wing chair across from hers.  Was
this a glimpse of what their life together would entail?  She banished
the thought from her mind.  It was useless to dwell on what the future
might hold.  Absolutely useless.  She of all people knew that what one
expected and what was likely to transpire were rarely the same thing.

"By Jove, Constance, I don't believe I've ever seen Lord Trendome
cackle so!  Well done, my girl, well done, indeed."  Philip closed his
eyes, savoring the fragrance of his smoke.  At his other hand was a
large snifter of brandy--his third.

"Where was your father, Philip?  I was so hoping to meet him."

"Oh.  Father."  His voice fell, although he didn't bother to open his
eyes.  She noticed his lashes were very pale, almost transparent, like
the lashes of a rabbit.

"He dines alone in his own, well, quarters.  By the way, that yarn
about the women in Charleston was priceless, absolutely priceless!
Mortimer, well, he was pleased as I've ever seen him.  You know, that
fellow at the end with the brown tooth?"

"I don't know, Philip.  They all blended together.  And more than one
gentleman had a brown tooth."

He laughed.

"In any case, Mortimer with the brown tooth has a friend who writes for
Punch.  Mortimer himself writes for that publication as well.  As he
left he asked if he could run some of your amusing tales, with complete
attribution, of course.  I gave him permission."

"You did?  Why didn't you mention that to me, Philip?"

"I scarcely thought you'd mind, my dear.  " With his eyes still closed,
he managed to bring the snifter to his lips with languid contentment.
After a long swallow he continued.

"This is marvelous, simply marvelous."

"The brandy?"

"No, no.  Well, I suppose brandy is marvelous, in its own way.  What I
mean, my dear, is that you are marvelous, getting all of that attention
that way.  This will be splendid for my career."

"For your career?"

"Of course.  You won everyone over.  They were here to see you,
naturally, the wild American and all that.  Most of those people have
never been here, wouldn't deign to come without some sort of
inducement."

When she said nothing, he continued, his eyes still closed in blissful
reflection.  Although she had gone quite pale, he did not see the
alteration in her complexion.

"This has been positively splendid.  I wouldn't be surprised if we get
an invitation to the Prince of Wales's home.  He's frightfully fond of
Americans, you know.  Loves all sorts of exotica.  Once that happens,
well, we're in."

"We'll be in what, exactly?"

"Why, the smart set, of course.  The Marlborough House Set, the cream
of society.  Splendid.  Absolutely splendid."

"I think I will go up to bed now, Philip."

Finally he opened his eyes and smiled.

"You deserve a nice rest, my dear."  He stood up, but released neither
the cigar nor the brandy.

As they stood, her eye caught the reflection of the two of them in the
gold-framed mirror over the fireplace.  Their images were visible to
her from her shoulders up.  Even with that limited view, her bright
gown stood out in sharp contrast to her blank expression.  He was
staring at his brandy, clearly the elegant man-about-town.

It was all wrong.  Not just the clothes, inharmonious as they were. No,
there was more to it than that.  He leaned over to kiss her cheek, and
the two faces were close enough to be seen together.

There was nothing.  No spark that said, "These two belong together." No
intangible link between the two.  His eyes did not meet hers, there was
no sense of connection even when his lips brushed against her cheek.

"Good night, my dear."  He sank back into the wing chair before she
left the room.  Glancing back once, she saw him refill the brandy
snifter and close his eyes once more, contemplating his future glory,
no doubt.

Why was it, she thought as she climbed the stairs, that she could not,
or more importantly, would not contemplate the future at all?

"Damn it," Joseph spat between clenched teeth.

He had done it again, lost track of the experiment.

It had been her image in his mind, not thoughts of his work, that had
caused him to spill the last sample from Balmoral.  Without that, the
whole series of tests would be worthless.

Wearily, he rubbed his hand over his eyes.  Sleep had eluded him
lately, he, Joseph Smith, who had always maintained a remarkable
ability to fall asleep standing up if necessary.  Once or twice that
had been the case.  No, sleep had never been a problem with him.

Until Constance Lloyd.

"No," he said to himself.

"This must not happen."  Not even Abigail had beguiled him so.  No,
Abigail had been a dream, a vision he had created much in his own
imagination.  Time and again he had been surprised when the reality of
Abigail had clashed so violently with the image he had forged during
their long separations.

But no one, no matter how gifted with the powers of imagination, could
ever create someone like Constance Lloyd.  Even her name was both a
contradiction and an apt tribute, for in reality the only thing
constant about the woman was her ability to surprise and delight.

And those were two things she had done to Joseph in their brief
acquaintance.  When he closed his eyes he saw her still, snatches of
their time together, flickering images of her smile, of her face
looking off into the distance, of her blue eyes--startling, clear-as
she blinked up at him in response to something he said.

Her voice came to him as well, her wry comments, her pragmatic,
good-natured banter.  There was nothing forced or studied about
Constance Lloyd, nothing that pointed to long hours of practiced
conversation.  She meant what she said and, unfortunately at times,
said what was on her mind before thinking the dialogue through.  In
short, she was delightful.  She was also Philip's intended bride,
something he was finding all too easy to push aside.  Marriage to
Philip would ruin her.  Not in the melodramatic, gothic sense, but in
terms of her freshness and spontaneity.  A year living at Hastings
House would destroy all of that, the long dull evenings with the
duchess holding court over no one but herself and Constance.  He could
see it now, Dishy in his chair, Philip reading an out-of-date London
newspaper, and Constance doing her best to keep her sanity.

Another scenario was even more appalling--entry into the Prince of
Wales's vapid set.  They were aristocratic dullards, trained to avoid
thinking at all costs, taught to stay away from books and art and
anything that might threaten their insular way of life.

Constance was a woman of real wit, not a practical joker.  How would
she react to the soda siphon fights, or tobogganing down the stairs of
Marlborough House on a silver tray out of simple boredom?  But what
really alarmed him was the notion of Constance in that vicious set.
Unless she herself became as malicious as the most sharp-tongued
gossip, she would be destroyed for the very reasons she should be
worshipped.

Philip had no idea what treasure had been handed to him by fate.

A small smile curved on Joseph's lips when he again envisioned her
face.  Then, with more deliberate concentration than he usually
required, he returned to his work.

The days passed for Constance in a numbing sort of sameness.  From the
silent first meal of the day until the obligatory bedtime of eleven
o'clock, the grinding routine became more difficult for her to bear
rather than easier.  She had even taken to moving the hands forward on
the mantel clock in the red salon after dinner, to speed the end of the
day by however many minutes she could manage without being obvious.
Philip had seen her, under pretense of looking for a book to read, but
said nothing when the chimes rang.  The viscount had also watched as
she quietly opened the glass and pushed the hands, but he, too, said
nothing.  Their mother alone was ignorant of how entire blocks of time
would be lost in Constance's haste to go to her own room, where she
could be comfortably alone with her thoughts.

The duchess never did make a reference to that first night, although
the very fact that the initial party was the last time guests were
asked to dine at Hastings House was significant.  The older woman
treated her with a dignified sort of aloofness, never really friendly,
just as she was never truly unfriendly.  Constance had been accepted in
a lukewarm fashion, which was perhaps not ideal, but it was
tolerable.

Philip was in and out of the house, always on the run to a rally or
meeting, always going over speeches he bought from his friend Mortimer.
From what Constance could tell, the campaign was going quite well,
although Philip himself did not give her many details.  Instead, he
asked her for amusing stories, ones he could weave somehow into his
speeches.  Whenever she made a remark that seemed witty or the least
bit clever, he jotted it down to pass on to Mortimer.

And when it came to the Viscount Cavendish, she seemed to be all but
invisible.  Dishy, as she could never bring herself to call him--the
name indicated a dash of fun and humor she had thus far been unable to
detect in the man himself--would look at her across the table at
breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, from across the salon at tea.  He never
spoke directly to her.  He never made any indication she existed at
all.  Even when he did appear to be watching her, he gave the
impression of staring right through her, the way someone deep in
thought gazes on a fixed object, yet is uncomprehending as to what it
meets in the line of the gaze.

When the duchess spoke to her, it was to give instruction or impart
information.  There was no longer a pretense of dialogue.  Constance
was expected to heed everything the duchess said, but heed it
silently.

"A member of the peerage always holds the small finger of the teacup
hand out thusly while sipping tea.  It is vulgar to do otherwise."

"One can always tell a lady by her carriage.  A true aristocrat never
slumps."

"Never condescend to speak to the servants as individuals.  Speak to
them as their rank indicates.  They do not expect to be addressed by
their names and, indeed, will not respect you if you bother to learn
their names."

Constance listened with polite interest, mentally contradicting the
duchess on virtually every point.  The pinkie finger out at teatime?
She herself thought it was an absurd affectation, sure to indicate to
one and all that the tea sipper was far more interested in creating an
illusion of breeding rather than actually being well-bred.  The
aristocracy never slumps?  Then what of the lords and ladies at Cowes
season, not to mention the crowned princes and princesses, who did
nothing but slump their way through the yachting and dancing and
strolling?  And never, but never address the servants by name.

"Stella, have you seen the left blue shoe?"  Constance called as she
yanked up her dress and got down on her hands and knees to look under
the bed.

The young woman came immediately, a smile on her round, bright-cheeked
face.  Stella was an almost comically perfect
country-girl-turned-domestic, from her cheerful disposition and her
eagerness to please to her increasingly frank assessment of the
domestic situation at Hastings House.

"The blue slipper, miss?"  She placed her hands on her hips.

"Now what are you about doing, and you on all fours with your new blue
gown?"

Constance glanced up, knocking her head on the leg of the bed.  Both
women winced.

"I can't seem to find the other shoe," Constance admitted, rubbing the
spot on her head.

Without hesitation Stella marched across the room and retrieved the
missing slipper from under the dressing table.  Wordlessly, she held it
up.

"Thank you, Stella."  Constance smiled as she took the shoe.

"How does this dress look?  It's another one of the new ones the
duchess ordered.  I believe she is operating under the misapprehension
that a flurry of invitations are about to be tossed this way."

"Now, miss, I heard Lord Hastings himself say that his friend, Mr.
Mortimer, the one that has a chum working over at that horrid magazine
Punch, says all of London is atwitter over you.  They all want to meet
you, they do."

"Why in heaven's name they all want to meet a governess, I'll never
know.  Most of them have their own governess, and I'll bet you a Union
dollar that they pay absolutely no attention to them whatsoever.  They
could stay at home and ignore her rather than make the effort to meet a
new governess to ignore."

"You don't understand, do you, miss?"

"As a matter of fact, Stella, I don't."

"You see, these lords and ladies, well, they are all used to each
other.  They may look like grown-ups, but in truth they are just
children what have married each other.  Everyone you're bound to meet
in these circles, why, they likely played together as babes, as did
their mothers and fathers."

"And like children, they enjoy something new every now and then?"

"Exactly, miss!"  Stella lowered her voice.

"Really, though, they are more like children what's not right in the
head.  Have you ever seen dogs from the same litter have their own
puppies?"

Constance shook her head slowly.

"No.  I'm afraid I have not."

"It's a fearful sight, it is.  Sometimes the puppies have but one eye,
sometimes they have too many legs or not enough legs.  One poor puppy I
saw just sat and stared, wouldn't eat none, so he withered away in no
time.  And I've seen my share of the muckety-mucks what do the same."

"In other words, the aristocracy is inbred," Constance whispered.

"Exactly, miss!"

"And I'm the mixed-breed outsider to offer them hope?"

"Now you've got it."  Stella stepped back, as if seeing Constance for
the first time, her voice hushed and almost reverent.

"Why, miss, you're lovely, you are.  A real beauty."

"Oh, Stella, thank you.  You know, the duchess has indeed been kind,
offering the clothes and all of the advice she thinks I need."

"I don't know if kindness has anything to do with it, miss."

"Excuse me?"

"What I mean is the duchess is doing it for herself and for her son,
that's all.  She's afraid of you, miss.  She knows her son needs you on
account of their father and herself not being real prime stock, if you
know what I mean.  As long as she needs you, she'll be kind; she'll not
harm the goose what lays the golden egg, if you get my meaning."

"I see."  Constance faced the large oval mirror, and for a moment she
herself was stunned.  The blue satin day dress--its skirt gathered in
exquisite pleats, the bodice simple other than for the high-notched
neckline--made her look like the furthest thing from a governess.

A thought ran through her mind like lightning: If only Joseph could see
her.

Where had that stray thought come from?  What deluded corner of her
mind was conjuring further daydreams in the mists of her real-life
fairy tale?

"Will you be down to tea soon, miss?"

"I'll be right down.  Thank you, Stella."

The maid lowered her face and curtsied before she left.

Joseph.  He was probably still in Scotland.  Not that it mattered.  Not
really.

She left her room and began to walk in the general direction of the red
room, where the afternoon tea was served.

What an extraordinary man he was, Joseph Smith.  Such an ordinary name
for such an extraordinary man.

An involuntary giggle escaped her mouth as she walked through the
halls, thinking about Joseph.  In her mind she played back scenes of
their time together, about when he became ill on oysters, when he
seemed so pleased at her ideas or comments.  Never had a man expressed
such admiration of her mind and ideas.  That had been a first, an
absolute first.

Yet he had also been there to calm her fears, to get her through what
could have been a terrifying experience.  But because of his kindness,
his general compassion, his understanding, she could only recall the
entire robbery incident with something dangerously close to fondness.

Fondness, and humiliation on her part.  She behaved so boldly, and at
times she would recall his touch, or the way he had looked at her, and
she knew she would blush furiously.

Did he think of her at all, she wondered.  And if he did, was it a
favorable thought?  Did he smile, too, at images of their adventure?
Above all, did his memory hold the way it felt to be so close all night
in that abandoned inn, to feel the warmth of each other's flesh, to ...
"Excuse me!"  She slammed into a body with a force that knocked her
backwards.  She was fortunate.  The other person was sprawled on the
carpet.

"Oh, do forgive me, sir!"

He was a frail-looking elderly man with sprouts of very white hair and
a face gleaming with a clean shaven shine.  As she reached her hand
out, and he took it, she realized who it was.

"Your grace."  She sank into a deep curtsy.

"Please, I don't know how to apologize.  It was my fault, entirely my
fault."

"Nonsense, my girl!  I shouldn't have ventured to this part of the
house in the first place.  It's against my general principles, you see.
Now let me get a proper look at you.  You're to be Philip's bride, are
you not?"

The old gentleman conveyed an air of overwhelming warmth and charm, and
she couldn't help but smile in return.  His eyes were a stunningly dark
shade of brown, all the more remarkable for the contrast with his snowy
hair.  The eyebrows, haphazard tufts that dipped and rose as he spoke,
reminded her of a matched set of rabbits' tails.

His gray uniform seemed to be influenced greatly by Prussian military
dress, although closer inspection of his badges and medals revealed
that they were nothing more than fanciful depictions of unicorns, farm
implements, and kitchen utensils.

"Ah, my medals.  They have been bestowed upon me by my faithful
army--the gardening staff", the kitchen staff", and, of course, the
jolly men who tend the animals.  I am most proud of each and every one,
Miss Lloyd."

"You know my name?"

"Indeed I do.  I have been told all about you.  Where are you going, my
girl?  You seem to be off at a brisk pace."

"To tea with the duchess," she said, trying to keep her voice cheerful.
The dread must have been apparent to the duke.  He gave an exaggerated
cringe, as if struck a blow on his slender shoulders.  Then he
straightened.

"If I may be so bold, how would you like to accompany me to tea in my
own quarters?"

She hesitated just for a moment.  How furious the duchess would be. How
terribly annoyed Philip would be.  And the young viscount, he would be
displeased as well.

"I have lovely butter and cheese sandwiches," the duke urged.

"They don't get butter and cheese sandwiches.  I'm the only one.  And
Cook makes me a special cake with raisins and rum.  It's delightful.
And they don't get a single slice of that either."

"Your grace."  She tilted her head in his direction.

"I would love to have tea with you."

"Jolly good!  Let us go to my own part of this dreadful monument to bad
taste."

She paused, and he laughed.

"You don't think I know it, my dear?  Why, I've spent the better part
of thirty-five years trying to avoid this place."

"Then what were you doing just now?  Up here in the corridor.  I do not
mean to be in any way impertinent, your grace."

"Not in the least!  It was a most logical question, the closest thing
I've had to two words of sense together from a member of this household
in years.  I was examining the books, you see."

"In the library?"

"No, no, my dear, although I do often wander up to borrow a book or
two.  Nobody misses them.  My sons and their mother are not great
readers, as you have probably noticed."

She smiled and took the arm he offered.

"Well, I was just making sure the financial situation upstairs is what
it should be.  I run most of the economics from below, of course.  But
sometimes the duchess will go overbudget, or one of the boys will
invest a great deal too much in horse flesh, and then I have to step in
and straighten things out.  Here, we turn left at this door."

It was a door she had passed frequently, but since it was always
closed--and the ornate molding ran across the entire door as if to
disguise it--she had assumed it was a closet for mops and brooms.
Instead it was a passageway, well-lighted, of marble steps and a lovely
brass handrail.

"Mind your step.  There's a good girl.  This way."  After two flights,
they opened another door.  And through that door was the most
magnificent corridor she had ever beheld.

It was simply appointed, from the beautiful dark green walls, hung with
exquisite works of art, some modern, others centuries old, to the
carpet, an endless glory of Persian design, rich with reds and blues
and greens, all existing and balancing each other in perfect concert.
There were brass wall sconces, plain yet classically curved, like those
of a plantation she had once visited in Petersburg, Virginia.

The hallway smelled of beeswax, and she recalled that fragrance from
when she was a child.  Her mother always had the furniture and the
walls buffed with beeswax.  There was something odd, however.  It took
her a moment to realize what was missing.

As if he read her mind, the duke answered her silent question.

"There is no daylight below, unfortunately.  We are underground, my
dear, and the only thing I lack is the light.  But hopefully, you will
become a regular guest, and therefore allow your sunshine downstairs.
Ah, here we are."

It was a salon, a man's salon clearly, yet it was the most pleasant
room she had ever entered.  Instead of covering every inch of space
with useless objects, there were photographs and paintings of people
and places.  One particularly lovely oil was of a dog, the noble head
of a retriever.

"I find old Sampson's features a great deal more reassuring than those
portraits upstairs.  In his face I see honesty and courage and
friendship."

"And upstairs, sir?"

He smiled, an expression that seemed to kindle an inner light, causing
his entire face to beam.

"Better left unsaid."

Then she caught sight of the portrait of an extraordinarily beautiful
young woman.  The painter had caught the woman's very essence in her
eyes; they seemed to both glow and accuse, an intriguing blend that
Constance found fascinating.

"Ah, that's Viola."

"Viola?  Is she a relation?  She's absolutely lovely."

"So, you haven't heard of Viola, eh?  Strange.  She is to marry my
eldest son."

"Dishy?"

"Dishy," the duke confirmed with a nod.

"It's most peculiar, if you ask me.  I always thought Philip and Viola
would make a match of it.  They were always such rascals together as
children, and always at each other's throats."

A sudden thought came to Constance's mind, of what Stella said about
the peers playing together as children.  Somehow, she couldn't imagine
the pale blonde beauty being a rascal, although the knowing glint in
her expression seemed to indicate more spirit than was strictly
fashionable.  And if she was indeed at anyone's throat, she couldn't
imagine any single man who would mind being the focus of her
attention.

There was a gentle knock, and the door opened.  A maid she had not seen
yet wheeled in a tea cart.

"Here we go, your grace.  This will put some meat on those bones."

"Thank you, Mrs.  Hutchinson.  And may we please have another cup?  My
future daughter-in-law is joining me for tea.

"I'm one step ahead of you, your grace.  There's an extra setup, from
tea to sandwiches to an extra few slices of that cake you're so fond
of.  Hope you like it as well, Miss Lloyd."

"Thank you, Mrs.  Hutchinson.  You are nothing short of wondrous."

"That's exactly what the late Mr.  Hutchinson used to say, your grace."
She curtsied and left them alone.

The duke, with surprising dexterity, poured her tea and filled her
plate, not allowing Constance to rise from her seat.

As the tea progressed, they engaged in a delightful discussion of books
and ideas, from Ruskin's views on education to Dickens and his
characters to Mark Twain's America.  The duke asked her thoughtful,
well-phrased questions about the Civil War, and offered condolences on
the loss of her family and position.

"How very hard it must have been for you, my dear.  How very brave you
are to have reinvented yourself as a magnificent governess.  I can only
hope my son will give you the happiness you deserve."  As he spoke he
watched her over the rim of his teacup, and took exaggerated care with
a piece of buttered brown bread.

She swallowed and thanked him, realizing that he was the first
individual in the household to speak to her plainly, to treat her as
something more than a potential adornment.

Philip must have told him.  How else could he have known?

Finally it was time for tea to end.

"This has been so wonderful, sir," she said truthfully.

"For me as well, my dear."  He clasped her hands in his dry, parched
grasp.

"Please come down to visit me often."

"I will.  This has been the nicest part of my stay at Hastings
House."

The duke smiled and led her to the door.

"She was not always the way she is now," he said, staring just beyond
where she stood.

"The duchess?"

"Yes.  When I met her she was lovely, a kind and gentle girl.  My
parents were furious when we married, of course.  But I was just the
third son, and no one could possibly imagine that I would ever become
duke.  That's when she changed, as if all the titles and lands took
away her joy in life.  We stay away from each other as much as
possible."

"How very sad," Constance said.

"Yes.  I would hate to see that happen to anyone else, especially in
the same family.  Oh, and Miss Lloyd," he added as an afterthought,
"jolly good thinking with those thieves on the road."

"Pardon?"

"I know all about your brilliant thinking, how you saved not only your
own life, but most likely future robbery victims as well.  I am
heartily impressed, my dear.  I don't think old Wellington himself
could have come up with a better plan under the circumstances.  Jolly
well done."

She was startled, her mind reeling.

"How..  . who ... when .. ."

"Oh, from Joseph Smith.  He wrote me a long missive all about you, Miss
Lloyd.  I'll say this: any person--male or female--who can make such an
impression on Smith deserves to be knighted.  Good night, Miss
Lloyd."

In a daze, she returned from the duke's underground lair to the garish
glare of the upper floors.

Constance was in her room, dressing for dinner-aware that the meal
would be all but intolerable after passing such a pleasant afternoon
with the duke-when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in, Stella.  Do you suppose .. ."

The door opened, and in marched the duchess.  As imposing a figure as
she had seemed below, in rooms more suited to her in scale and decor,
she seemed to dwarf every corner of Constance's modest quarters.

"Your grace."  Was the duchess angry that Constance had taken tea with
the duke?  Was she furious because she had the audacity and vulgarity
to call a servant by her name?  In short, was the duchess going to
order the rack for her?

Anything seemed possible.  Anything at all--except for what actually
happened.

"My dear, dear girl," the duchess cried.  It was then Constance
realized with mounting alarm that the woman had tears in her eyes,
great oversized drops of tears.

"My dear, sweet girl!"

And then the duchess embraced Constance.

Once she had heard of a man being mauled to death by a grizzly bear,
and in her shock she wondered if this is what it would feel like.  Of
course, the grizzly would not have been wearing diamonds the size of
pears and the texture of knives.  For an alarming moment she thought
she would pass out.  Just when the world began to tilt, the duchess
released her.

"You've done it, my girl!"  It was then that Constance realized the
duchess was waving a cream-colored card, a piece of paper of some
sort.

"The wedding plans aren't even fixed yet, and you've done it!"

"Done what?"  Should she apologize?  Disavow any knowledge of whatever
she had done to deserve such treatment?

"The Prince!  You and Philip have just been invited to spend a weekend
at Sandringham!  You will be the guests of the Prince and Princess of
Wales!  You have arrived, my dear.  We have all arrived!  I must send a
messenger to Lady Trendome.  She will be furious!"

"But what about Philip and his campaign?  Isn't it important for him to
stay here and work on the elections?  The polling begins in a matter of
days."

"Heavens, no!  An invitation to Sandringham will do more good than a
year of speech-making and spotty baby-kissing!  An invitation to
Sandringham!  The Prince may not be a king yet, but he is most
certainly the king of the social world.  An invitation!"

And with that the duchess turned on her heel to leave.  First, however,
she gave another smile--an appalling expression on her face, as
incongruous and unexpected as watching a plough horse break into
song.

"You must have a better room, my dear!  Tonight, after our celebration,
you will be moved to the gold room!"

Constance did her best to smile back.  But somehow, in the pit of her
stomach, she had a sinking feeling that it was far, far better to be
ignored by the duchess than it was to be the center of her universe.

Sandringham was large and impressive, a structure of brick and stone
with peaked roofs and expansive windows.  Like so many great country
homes, it was a mixture of styles; in this case, Tudor and Georgian
seemed to have won out over Gothic and neoclassical.  Yet, as Philip
helpfully pointed out, it was not nearly as large, nor composed of as
many architectural examples, as Hastings House.  That fact seemed to
please him an enormous amount.

The house had been given to the Prince of Wales on his twenty-first
birthday.  Instead of being a fortress of virtue for the young prince,
and later his wife, as his father Prince Albert had intended, a place
for them to retreat to the healthful pursuits of the country, it had
become yet another place for the Marlborough House set to conduct their
amusements.  Not only were the more wholesome pursuits generally
frowned upon at Sandringham, its location provided the added advantage
of being geographically removed from London.  Any incidents that could
be seen as the least bit ignoble or questionable would take that much
longer to reach his mother the Queen's disapproving ears.

In short, Sandringham was much like London's Marlborough House, but
with more guns, shrubbery, stocked game and wild life to shoot.

Constance and Stella, now promoted to lady's maid, sat together on one
side of the coach, across from Philip and his valet, Owen.  She wasn't
sure if Owen was the young man's first name or last, but for Philip's
purposes, it served as his only name.

"This is it, Constance," Philip said with a curiously flat voice.

"This weekend we will make our official entry into the smart set.  From
now on, we will be on the ins."  He then smiled, almost as an
afterthought.

Constance tried to catch even a tiny dash of Philip's enthusiasm, but
she was simply too fatigued.  The duchess had used the week before
their journey to Sandringham to indulge in a whirlwind of dressmaking,
with three seamstresses ordered up from London, and seven others to
assist in the actual sewing.  The head seamstress, a Madame Vendome,
had displayed a most disconcerting habit of slipping in and out of her
broad French accent, occasionally asking for "le bloody needle" or a
swatch of that "rotting Brussels lace."

As Constance was being fitted and pinned with breakfast gowns, evening
gowns, ball gowns, morning frocks, tweed walking suits, riding
habits--the duchess had inquired warily, "You do ride, of course?"
before ordering the habit--she was simultaneously bombarded with the
pedigrees and peccadilloes of the peers most likely to be fellow guests
at Sandringham.  More than once she had wanted to cry out "Who cares!"
at the slanderous tidbits the duchess had obtained secondhand at best,
most likely third or fourthhand.  Did it really matter that Lord
So-and-so was now conducting an open affair with the former paramour
of the Prince of Wales, an erstwhile bowling alley employee known as
"Skittles"?  Or that Lady Whatever-her-name had once packed her bags
and waited under a decorative Hyde Park footbridge to elope with an
Austrian count, only to discover that his proposal had been his club
penalty as a result of losing a rubber of bridge?

All in all, Constance could find no reason she needed to know these
rather pathetic scraps of human frailty.

As the day of their departure finally arrived, an underhouse maid
appeared at her room carrying a small tin bucket containing what
appeared to be lunch, all wrapped neatly in brown paper.

"It's from his grace, miss," the maid had bobbed.

"He wishes you the best of luck, and sends this to you.  The duke feels
one can never be unprepared when carrying a nice meal, miss. Especially
while on a journey.  And he tucked in the cheese and butter sandwiches
and raisin tea cakes himself, miss."

Constance laughed for the first time in days.  She laughed from sheer
exhaustion, from the absurdity of the gift, and finally because the old
duke had once again shown her genuine kindness and friendship.

It was with an arched eyebrow that the duchess saw Constance leave for
Sandringham with four carefully packed trunks, one ladies' maid, a
velvet reticule, a veiled hat, an elegant green traveling suit, and an
unadorned tin bucket.

The journey to Sandringham itself, by rail and then coach, was
surprisingly swift.  And in a matter of hours it seemed, they were on
the threshold of royalty.

At the front entrance, where a scalloped awning covered the steps,
there stood a brace of Highland Gillies, men with legs like tree trunks
protruding from under their heavy wool kilts, positioned to greet them,
to unload the luggage, and to direct each guest inside.

If the need should arise, she felt sure they could toss a pianoforte or
heft a ram over their shoulders.

Since Philip and Constance were not married, only engaged, it was
understood that they would be issued rooms in separate wings.  The
thought, vague as it was, of seeing Philip in various stages of undress
was more than unsettling, simply because she could not possibly imagine
him less than polished and brushed.

Other carriages were rolling up the drive at the same time, jostling
for position, the guests stubbornly refusing to descend from their
coaches until they had the full attention of at least one of the
Gillies, preferably both.  The ladies nodded at each other, the long
feathers on their hats dipping in an aviary ritual greeting.  Some
smiled, holding eye contact for only a moment or two.  Later, when the
maid had unpacked their trunks and they had slipped on the newest of
their tea gowns over their tightest-laced corsets, only then would the
real acknowledgments begin.

The men greeted each other with hearty handshakes and bluff chuckles
about their latest fishing jaunts or the best place to bag pheasant or
duck.  For the men as well, the real weekend would not begin until the
evening, over billiards and brandy and tobacco smoke.

On the reverse side, that was also where the social shoving, the
elbowing for the prince and princess's attention, and the opportunity
to studiously ignore another guest would begin in earnest.  The coach
descent was merely the brief prologue to the adventures that would
unfold later.

Constance knew she was being watched.  It was like the waltz at Cowes,
when the Prince had asked her to dance and suddenly everyone knew who
Constance Lloyd was.  This was the same sensation, and some of the same
faces that had been in ball gowns and white ties were now in traveling
tweeds, all appraising her with the same narrow-eyed curiosity.

Philip and Owen went in one direction, led by a footman in white
stockings and, she suspected, padded calves.  It was common to add a
bit of horsehair muscle to outline the legs of the more slender, less
strapping footmen, as well as to pay higher wages to footmen clever
enough to be both well-calved and over six feet tall.

It was something of a marvel to her that the royal homes still insisted
on being served by men in satin knee breeches and white powdered wigs.
She wondered that the members of the royal household weren't struck by
the unpleasant associations with attire from the last century, such as
the American Revolution or, more to the point, the French Revolution.

Constance and Stella were led to their rooms by a charming young woman
in a blue dress with a white lace cap.  The house itself seemed very
much a family hunting lodge, filled with stuffed game birds and
photographs of friends and family members on every wall and on every
surface, Constance was well pleased with her room, a smallish bedroom
that was more homey than regal.  Then she caught a fragrance of
something familiar and almost forgotten, so light and airy it would be
missed by anyone else, and tears came to her eyes before her mind had a
chance to identify the source.

Dogwood.  On the large mahogany dresser covered with a delicate lace
runner, held in a plain white vase, was a large armful of dogwood. With
a small cry she dropped her reticule and bucket and stepped towards the
bouquet, inhaling the scent she had only experienced in memory since
she left Virginia almost ten years earlier.  There was a tap at the
door, and Constance, her eyes still closed and her face still buried in
the flowers, was barely able to utter "Come in."

Dogwood.  Images poured into her mind, of her mother trimming the
dogwood trees in front of the house, her father with a sprig of dogwood
in his lapel.

"Miss Lloyd?  How do you like your room?"

"It's beautiful," she whispered.  Then she turned to face the person
she assumed would be a maid.

In her room stood Alexandra, the Princess of Wales.

Constance sank into a deep curtsy.

"Your Majesty."

But the princess waved an impatient hand.

"Please rise, Miss Lloyd.  Is your room satisfactory?"

The princess was exquisite, her eyes a blue like pale, sapphire ice,
her skin fragile yet flawless, her golden hair arranged on top of her
head in small curls, a few tumbling in careful tendrils over her
forehead.  Her voice, even with the marked Danish accent, was as eager
to please as a small child.

"The room is perfect, Your Majesty.  And the flowers.  I haven't had
the good fortune to enjoy dogwood since I was a child."

"I am so very pleased!"  The Princess clasped her hands and smiled,
revealing beautifully even white teeth.

"I know you are from Virginia, and so I found a hothouse in London that
had some dogwood trees growing.  I feared they would not arrive on time
for you, but they came this very morning."

"Your Majesty, thank you.  Your thoughtfulness is overwhelming."

"Your happy expression is all I need to see!  You may know that I am
not from England, but from Denmark.  Many times I have a sickness and
longing for my home and all I knew as a girl.  When I heard that you
came here to England also as a young woman, with no family, I knew
exactly how you must sometimes feel.  I just hope the flowers make you
happy, not sad with your memories."

"Happy, Your Majesty.  Very happy indeed."  The princess smiled and
stepped closer towards Constance.

"Now, a few things I must tell you on this four first visit.  We have
tea at five o'clock.  Some of ;he guests will still be arriving, and
others will wish to rest after their journey, so tea will be quite
informal, The men may wish to just poke about for harmless animals to
shoot tomorrow morning.  And we dine in the evening at exactly
eight-thirty.  The Prince is very punctual, I am not, which is why you
may notice some of the clocks downstairs are fifteen minutes fast. Dear
Bertie is always hoping the fast clocks will speed me up, but that
hasn't happened thus far, I fear to say.  Your clock in here is
correct, though."

"Tea is at five, dinner is at eight-thirty," Constance repeated.

"Thank you again, Your Majesty."

"Oh, and Miss Lloyd?"

"Your Majesty?"

"If you have a desire to eat," she lowered her voice, "do so quickly.
We have no long five-hour meals here.  Dinner is over with very
quickly, and the Prince will have his plate clean in the time it takes
the rest of us to pick up a fork.  If you're hungry, don't bother to
speak to the gentleman on your right, or the lady across the table.
Just eat!  Please rest, and if you wish to come, we will see you in an
hour at tea, Miss Lloyd."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," was all Constance could say as the princess
left her room.  She walked with a very slight, but quite noticeable
limp, a side effect of the rheumatic fever that had very nearly claimed
her life several years before, and had left her partially deaf.  Yet
she refused to let her physical limitations interfere with her social
duties.  She heard the Princess stop at a room down the hall.

"Lady Collins?  Is your room quite comfortable?"

How very astonishing, Constance thought as she again looked over at the
dogwoods.  How very astonishing indeed.

Tea was quite a casual affair, in spite of Constance being all but sewn
into a tight cream and brown silk gown, with a square-cut neckline and
earbobs borrowed from the duchess.  And also in spite of, or perhaps
because of, the presence of the Princess of Wales, it seemed a
wonderfully amiable gathering.  She held sway over the group in a
quiet, gentle manner, so pleasant that any natural rivalry between any
of the women was charmed into benign submission.

There was Lady Collins, whose room was just beyond Constance's--a
natural storyteller with a vivacious sense of humor.  Then there was an
older woman, Lady Trent, who seemed so absolutely thrilled just to be
there, she did nothing but smile and act pleased with every aspect of
the tea, from the marmalade to the napkin ring.  The lobster salad,
served with every tea because the Prince requested it, sent her into a
delirious state of ecstasy.  Other women were there, although Constance
did not quite catch their names.

And then a young woman entered the room, a slender blonde with hair so
pale it seemed an ethereal halo about her head, and a walk so lissome
she seemed to glide rather than take actual steps.  Her curtsy to the
Princess was a study in grace, and then she turned to Constance.  At
once she realized it was the woman from the portrait at Hastings
House.

"Viola, my dear cousin!"  chirped Abigail Merrymeade, an elegant young
woman married to, as Constance deduced from the conversation, an
elderly marquis.  Lady Merrymeade was the very image of a classical
English beauty, from her pale blond hair to her rich brown eyes.  Her
nose, slender and rather longish, was perfectly straight.  Her teeth,
unfortunately were also classically English, slightly protruding and a
vexing shade of yellow.  But that didn't matter.  She had obviously
learned to avoid smiling whenever possible and seldom spoke more than
five words in a row.  Whether her manner was an attempt to deflect
attention from her teeth, or simply her natural demeanor, it did not
really matter, for it suited her very well.

But it was Viola who fascinated Constance.  She remembered the comment
the duke had made about Viola and Philip being so suited to each other,
and had to agree.  She was lovely and elegant.

As she was contemplating the issue, Viola stepped over to Constance.

"Miss Lloyd?"  She extended her hand.

"Hello.  I do believe we are to become related.  I am Viola Rathbottom,
and, at the moment, I am engaged to Dishy."

"At the moment, Miss Rathbottom?"  Constance asked the other woman as
she sat down next to her.

"Yes.  I believe this is the fourth time we've been engaged to each
other."

"The fifth time," corrected Abigail Merrymeade.

"Don't forget the Christmas ball."

"Good heavens, I always forget about that one.  I stand corrected.
Dishy and I have been engaged five times.  And I do have every hope
that we will actually make it down the aisle on this go-round."  Viola
then leaned toward Constance.

"So tell me, how do you like our soon-to-be mum-in-law?"

"Well," Constance began carefully.

"She is really rather formidable."

Viola smiled, and Constance wondered why the portrait artist had
painted her with such a serious expression, for she had such an
engaging smile.  Her entire face seemed to glow.

"Formidable.  That sums it up quite nicely," she agreed.

"I've known her all of my life, since my family's land borders the
Hastings estate.  And I've known Philip all of my life, too."

"And will Dishy be joining this party?  I don't recall the duchess
mentioning that he would be here as well."

"No.  You see, Dishy is rather odd when it comes to society.  I believe
he would find a visit such as this something akin to torture.  In that
he is much like his father, which is why the duchess places such hopes
on Philip.  And our engagement is not official yet, so there was really
no need."

Constance found the situation rather peculiar, an engaged woman at a
house party without her fiance.  There was a distinct hint that Viola
was not at all eager to have her future husband at her side, neither at
the present time, nor at any other time in the future.  Viola seemed
about to say something else when Lady Trent sat on the nearest chair,
happily touching the edge of a pillow as if it were a holy relic.

"This fringe," she whispered.

"It is absolutely magnificent.  Unlike any other fringe, of course.
Just think.  This is royal fringe!  Would you like to touch it, my
dear?"  Lady Trent offered the pillow to Constance, who politely
declined.  By then Viola was already in a discussion with her cousin
about a wayward mutual acquaintance.

All of the rest of the women were impeccably polite to Constance,
taking their cue from the Princess.  There were no comments about
drunken governesses, no mention of vulgar Americans.  She had no other
chance to speak to Viola.

After tea, when most of the other women went to their rooms to rest and
contemplate the task of dressing for dinner, Constance asked, and was
granted, permission to visit the library.  She was given the directions
and, without changing from her tea gown, went to find a book.

The heavy door opened slowly at her prodding, and at once she caught
the wonderful leather and paper smell of a library.  Not just any
library, but an old one filled with books that had been read and reread
in that very room.

It was dark inside, the sun just setting over the trees beyond the
lawn.  With a sigh she stepped inside the room.

The masculine voice was so soft that at first she thought she had
imagined it.

"Constance."

She gasped, startled for just the briefest of moments, for she knew
exactly whose voice she had heard.

"Joseph," she said before she could see him.  And he rose from a table
to the right of the door.  Before him were spread a half dozen books.

His tweeds seemed to need a pressing, and his cravat was loose, perhaps
unknotted with his fingers without his realization as he read.  A
thatch of hair, reddish-brown in the fading sunlight, fell over his
forehead, and he tossed his head in a brisk gesture to remove it from
his vision.

He seemed to regain his composure before she did.

"How very good it is to see you," he said warmly.

She crossed the room with a purposeful stride, her hand extended as if
they had been business associates.  He hesitated a moment, then smiled
and shook her hand.

"I hope your business went well in Scotland."  Her voice was unsteady,
and she watched his eyes, the play of light reflecting in the rich
color.  How often in the past two weeks she had thought of him.  How
very often she had imagined his face, or an expression.  And he would
never know, must never know, that she had been thinking of him so
frequently.

"It did go well, thank you."

"Good.  I'm glad."  She took a deep breath.

"What are you reading?"

For a moment he just watched her, not reacting to her words.  Then he
straightened.

"Excuse me?  I'm afraid I didn't catch what you said."

"I just asked what you are reading."

"Reading?  Ah, you mean the books.  Well, chemistry, I suppose.  Yes.
Forgive me, I am reading some of the Prince's chemistry books."

"And are you absolutely sure?"

His laugh filled the room.

"Reasonably so."

"I don't wish to look at those pages and find pictures of female French
circus performers."

"Unfortunately, someone else procured it before me--nothing but an
empty space where it usually is.  So I settled for a book by Lister."

"Ah, and what does the good Professor Lister have to say?"

"He says, and this of course is an indirect quote, 'it is a good thing
to wash one's hands."" "He is a learned man."

"Yes."

Again there was a lull in their conversation, although it did not feel
uncomfortable or awkward.  Rather, they both felt at ease, savoring the
moments together.

He shook his head as if to toss back the wayward lock of hair, yet it
had not fallen into his eyes.  His voice was strained as he spoke.

"And how are you adjusting to your new life?  You must be well pleased.
After all, you have managed to obtain an invitation from the Prince of
Wales."

"As have you, Joseph.  You never mentioned that you traveled in such
exalted circles."  Her hands dropped to her waist, and she clasped them
tightly.

And then their eyes met, truly met, for the first time.  They remained
motionless, suspended in time.  She watched his gaze, his eyes as his
expression softened.  The small dimple at the corner of her mouth
caught his attention, and as he had guessed, she then \ broke out in a
full smile.

"Ah, well," he stammered, unable to look away.  His mind raced with
reasons to glance up, or to return his focus to the chemistry books he
had been studying.  Tapping his fingertips on the table, he willed
himself to pick up one of the books, to continue reading as he had
before she had entered the library.

But he couldn't.  It was as if an invisible force rendered him
incapable of voluntary movement.  She was captivating, he thought,
staring down at her face in the dusty library.  She was utterly
captivating, all the more so because she had no idea of her power.

"The Princess put dogwood in my room," she blurted out.

He stopped tapping his fingers.

"Pardon?"

"The Princess of Wales filled my dresser with dogwood."

"Dogwood?"  And then he remembered the flower from his travels to the
United States.

"Dogwood, from Virginia.  How very much like her, to find something
special for a guest."

"Is she always this kind?"

"She has been to me.  She always places books she thinks will be of
interest to me on my bedside table.  Last time I was here it was The
Dyemaker's Companion, an out-of-print manual from about a hundred years
ago, all about how to make pigment from berries and insects.  Another
time it was a book of Celtic folk tales."

They both stood in silence, not quite certain of what else to say, but
very much aware of each other's presence.

"Are you happy, Constance?"

His voice was a mere undertone.

"I... I do not know," she answered.

"But right now, at this very moment, I am happy."

It was as if the world had stopped turning, as if the entire universe
existed only in that room, with these two people.

His breath feathered against her cheek as he leaned over her, and she
took a step towards him.  And then, both suddenly and inevitably, their
lips were together.  Never had she kissed, or been kissed, in such a
way.  The night at the inn they had shared a moment of sweet intimacy,
but now it was as if the two weeks apart had intensified their
emotions, firing them into an explosive roar.

It was an alien feeling, as if the floor had dropped out from beneath
her feet, yet still she stood suspended and supported.  There was no
self-consciousness, as there had been on the few occasions when Philip
had kissed her.  Then she had been aware of extraneous sounds, a
distant bird chirp, the clip-clop of horses' hooves.

Now all she could think of was Joseph, how he permeated her every
sense.  She inhaled his fragrance, a clean scent of masculine skin and
the outdoors, and felt her lips against his, so soft and very warm,
surprisingly soft for a man.  Above all, she could taste him, her mouth
pressed against his, the very air he breathed now caressing her
cheek.

He made a movement, and for an awful instant she thought he was going
to push her away.  Instead, he drew her closer to him, against his
body, their mouths still locked together.

Then his tongue plunged into her mouth, and she jumped just slightly,
but his gentle movement lulled her back to his embrace.  It wasn't
strange at all, it was perfect, as if it was something they had always
done.

And then he did pull away.

"No," he rasped.

"No."

She was in a dream state, as if she had been given a narcotic and her
limbs were deliciously heavy.

"Constance, we must not."  His voice tore through her consciousness,
shattering every comfortable fiber she had only just learned she
possessed.

"Please, Joseph."  Was that her voice, that husky plea?

"No."  The tone was firm and gave no room for argument.  Before she
could speak further, he had slammed shut the leaves of the oversized
book he had been reading and left the room.

His footsteps still echoed in her mind minutes later, when the light in
the room finally faded, and Constance was once again alone.

Joseph walked briskly across the lawn, attempting to clear his head.

"Smith!  Smith, you rascal!"

He stopped and took a deep breath.

"Philip," he said at last, turning towards his friend.

"I had no idea you would be here."  Philip was so pleased to see him,
it was impossible not to return the smile.

"It was a rather last-minute arrangement."

"I see."  Philip shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Grand day, is it not?"

"Yes.  I've been indoors most of the day, but it is indeed pleasant.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to be off now."

"Urgent business?  I do hope nothing is amiss.  You look rather
shaken."

"No, no.  Of course not.  Everything is fine."

"Good."  Philip nodded, looking down at the grass.

"Mother is pleased that I was invited."

Joseph smiled.

"I can imagine.  And you must be pleased as well."

Philip did not answer.  Instead he kicked a clump of sod over with the
toe of his boot.  Then, in a peculiar gesture, he wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand, as if deciding how to respond.  When he did, his
words came out in a rush.

"So far there is nothing spectacular about being here, is there?"

Joseph was not sure he had heard correctly.

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, it's really just the same old crowd from London, or anyplace
else for that matter."

"I'm astonished, Philip.  I thought you'd be all smiles and delight to
be here."

"Not really.  It seems rather pointless."

Joseph blinked.

"Philip, I cannot believe what I just heard."

"I suppose you are here on some business rather than pleasure."

"In a sense, yes.  Why?"

"You really enjoy your work, don't you?"

"Yes.  I enjoy it a great deal."

"I've never said this before, but I envy you.  I always have, I
suppose.  You have always had a purpose, a sense of knowing exactly
what direction you should take.  Even as children, you seemed to know,
although God knows how."

"My sense of direction is not so well-developed," Joseph admitted,
surprised by the simple truth.

"In many ways, I don't know what the hell I am doing."

"No, you don't understand what I mean."  He looked up from the grass,
and Joseph noticed for the first time that there were dark circles
under his friend's eyes.

"You are able to do what you want, see whomever you please, make your
own way in this world."

Joseph said nothing, still startled by Philip's sudden tone.

"You know, Smith, I like Constance a great deal.

want you to know that.  Whatever happens, I like her a great deal."

Joseph swallowed.

"She's a wonderful woman.  You're lucky."

"I mean I like her, damn it.  She deserves more than someone like me.
She's intelligent and quick."

"She is," Joseph said simply.

"Did you know that Viola is here?"

"No.  Is she?  I didn't see her."

"Well, Viola is here.  So is that wretched cousin of hers."

"Abigail."  He said the name under his breath.

"Sorry, Joseph.  I forgot.  Anyway, Viola and Dishy are on again."

"Again?  Do you suppose it will stick this time?"

Philip shrugged.

"Who knows?  Well, I'll let you go now."

"Wait a minute."  Joseph placed his hand on his friend's arm.

"What's really bothering you?  You're at Sandringham, you have a
beautiful fiancee, and you're all but in as an MP.  Yet you're about as
far from content as I've ever seen you.  There's no use pretending with
me--I know you far too well.  I haven't seen you like this since Scuffy
Williams broke your cricket bat."

Philip did not smile at the recollection.

"Tell me," Joseph prodded.

"Damn it," Philip rasped.

"I don't want to be here.  I don't want to live my life for my mother.
I want to be free to make my own mistakes."

"Then do it."

Philip laughed, but it was with bitterness.

"It's not that easy."

"Of course it's not that easy.  But is the way you feel now easy?"

Philip shook his head.

"For God's sake, Philip.  Listen to me.  You must do whatever it is
that will secure your own happiness.  And there's still time for you to
follow your own dreams; I know you have them.  Before they dry up,
before you become just an empty shell.  Follow whatever path you
must."

"But my mother..."

"Your mother will be fine."

"But I have an obligation ..."

"To yourself.  You owe no one else a single thing.  Philip, you're a
good man.  But if you keep on ignoring your real talents and desires,
you will lose your essence.  And once lost, you'll be lost forever."

Finally Philip looked directly into Joseph's eyes.  He did not speak,
just nodded slightly before he walked back to the house.

And Joseph stood on the lawn by himself, wondering who he had just
given the lecture to ... his friend, or himself.

If tea had been a casual affair, dinner was as choreographed as a
ballet.  It began with the nearly ceremonial gathering in the
wood-paneled room, where sherry was delicately consumed from etched
crystal glasses.  One glass only; any more would be frowned upon, even
in the Prince's licentious set.  When the royals themselves entered,
one and all curtsied and bowed, and more mingling ensued.

Constance was very much aware of Joseph.  Of all the men gathered, to
her he was by far the most exciting, including the Prince himself.
While the others preened for the Wales's, Philip was notably quiet,
almost withdrawn.  She wondered if he could be ill, he seemed so
distracted.  But she noticed that he glanced over at Viola Rathbottom
frequently, often while he was engaged in conversation with others.

"Miss Lloyd."  Joseph smiled when he was at her side.

He was spectacular, she realized, in his simple black swallowtail
jacket and black tie.  His hair was brushed back, the first time she
had seen him so carefully groomed.  The result was exactly what she had
expected.  He was handsome, almost beyond belief.

"Mr.  Smith," she replied, unable to stop smiling at the mere sight of
him.

"You look beautiful tonight, Constance."  His voice was serious, and so
low that she alone could hear his words.  For a moment she closed her
eyes.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Her gown, of shimmering silk shot through with silver thread, was
easily the equal of any gown present.  For that she silently thanked
the overbearing duchess, who had forced Constance to stand still for
the tortuous hours each fitting seemed to require.

It was all worth it.  He thought she looked beautiful.

"Miss Lloyd?"  The voice was different, and she opened her eyes to find
the round face of the Prince of Wales.

"Your Majesty."  She curtsied, careful not to spill her drink all over
his shoes.

"I do hope I did not wake you, Miss Lloyd," he said with a decided
wink.

"And Smith, good to see you, too, old boy."

"Your Majesty, as always, the pleasure is mine."  Joseph bowed, but not
nearly as deeply as the other men had, and certainly not within reach
of Philip's bow.

"Did you find the books you required?"  The prince seemed to be
addressing Joseph, but his gaze was entirely on Constance.

He was a pleasant man, she thought, watching his face as he spoke.
Certainly not handsome, with his bulging eyes and round face, his
rather sparse whiskers and his rather too-full waistline.  His accent
was unique, almost guttural.  He pronounced his 'r's with a Teutonic
growl, remarkably foreign-sounding, although he was, of course, born in
England.  His father, Prince Albert, had been German, and the prince
himself had been isolated as a boy, forbidden to play with British
children his own age.

"I did find the books, sir," Joseph said.  He did not address the
Prince as Your Majesty, and for a moment Constance feared he would be
reprimanded.

The prince took no notice.

"Excellent, Smith.  I'm glad to hear it."  Then he turned his full
attention to Constance.

"And Miss Lloyd, how are you enjoying your stay?"

"Very much, Your Majesty."  From the corner of her eye she saw Philip
glance towards them.  Instead of walking in their direction--she was,
after all, speaking with HRH--Philip stepped over to Viola, who was
standing by herself near the fireplace.

"I am heartily glad to hear it, Miss Lloyd.  My wife told me that she
was able to locate some special flowers for you, is that not the
case?"

"It is, Your Majesty."  She smiled, and he returned the smile.

"It was such a wonderful surprise.  I hadn't been able to enjoy the
scent and sight of dogwood since I was a girl."

A liveried servant stood in the center of the room and made a single
tap on an enormous gong.

"Your Majesties, ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served."

"Well," said the prince, placing his, and then her empty sherry glass
on a silver tray.

"Shall we?"  He crooked his arm, and it took a moment for Constance to
realize his meaning.

The Prince of Wales himself wished to escort her in to dinner.

They led the way, the others falling in ascending social rank.  She
could not help but giggle.

"And what is so funny, Miss Lloyd?"  The Prince inquired, leaning
forward to hear what she would say.

"In all honesty, Your Majesty, I fear what I was thinking may not be
appropriate to share with you."

"Oh, then do, you must!  I will be terribly disappointed if you do not
tell me immediately what caused you to laugh."

"Is that a royal order?"

"It is indeed!  Under penalty of... well, something wretched and vastly
unpleasant."

"In that case, Your Majesty, I confess that I find it highly amusing
that I am walking with you at this moment, at the head of so many
venerable peers."

"That was it?"  He seemed disappointed.

"Not precisely, Your Majesty.  I just thought that, as a governess, the
last time I entered a room at the head of so many people, it was in a
nursery."

"Well, I do hope we are a better behaved lot, Miss Lloyd."

At that precise moment a gentleman backed loudly into the dinner gong,
causing it to clang into a marble-topped table.

"I'm afraid I have my doubts, Your Majesty," she muttered.

Before she could elaborate, the prince stopped just over the threshold
to the massive dining room, threw his head back, and roared with
laughter.

No one else had heard what Constance said, although eyebrows were
raised in silent question, and the Prince's obvious delight with his
partner was duly noted.  Only one member of the party smiled along with
HRH's genuine pleasure with his lovely companion, and that was the
Welshman, Joseph Smith.

The first part of the meal passed in a kind of silver-plated blur, as
dish after dish swept by her.  There was an enormous epergne, with arms
holding dozens of candles, all flickering and reflecting off the wood
and silver.  It was a sprawling, grotesque monstrosity that resembled a
beast struggling from the sea in Greek mythology, and it obstructed her
view of the other side of the table.  The ocean theme seemed to be
echoed throughout the first course, where platters of fish, their
glazed eyes eerily mimicking the expression of more than one of the
guests, were offered at speeds faster than the creature could have
traveled in life.

The silverware, china, crystal, and napkins, while of extraordinary
quality, were quite plain, no gold flocking or ornate designs.  Lady
Trent, the woman for whom tea was an apparent celebration of the
mundane, was rendered speechless once again by the sheer quantity of
the sights.  It was similar to watching a cat following the reflections
of a chandelier--her expression was nothing short of perplexed
wonderment.

The food came in quick succession, always beautifully served, always
with a sauce that, no matter what its color or content, seemed to taste
merely warm and salty.

And in time, the conversation turned surprisingly salty as well.

Constance attempted to avoid being the center of attention, but the
Prince, sitting just three people away from her, was constantly drawing
her into his conversation.  Princess Alexandra, catching only a few
occasional words or phrases, was unable to understand much of the
dining room buzz, but seemed content to focus on the guests to her
immediate left and right.

Prince Edward, in the middle of eating a rather large tenderloin of
beef, suddenly spoke up in a voice loud enough for all of the guests to
hear.

"I say, Miss Lloyd said the most confoundedly funny thing as we entered
the room this evening."

She swallowed, and instinctively glanced over at Joseph.  He was four
seats away, his expression bland.  Philip was across from him, behind
the mythical centerpiece.  All she could see was the top of his head
and the motion of his right elbow, which seemed to be working with
startling rapidity to keep wine at his lips and the food from being
ladled on his plate.

The Princess had heard her husband.

"Do tell us, Your Majesty, what Miss Lloyd said."

Heads swiveled from the Prince, on one end of the table, to the
Princess, on the opposite end, then back to the Prince, like spectators
at a lawn tennis match.

"She said, just as we walked into this very room, "I believe this
gathering is as ill-behaved as any group of children I encountered as a
governess!"" Then the Prince, his face red with repressed mirth, barked
with laughter.

Constance's mouth opened just slightly before she shut it again.  By
then, everyone was staring at her with bewildered frowns.  Snatches of
conversation filtered into her mind.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Bloody hell, what was amusing about that?"

"Bloody hell, what did she bloody well mean?"

"What sparkling wit, what?"

"She is an American, you know."

Joseph leaned forward, his expression still neutral, and raised both
eyebrows at her before settling back into his chair.

"Tell us, what did you mean, Miss Lloyd?"  The Princess, perhaps
confused and blaming her inability to detect any humor in the statement
on her faulty hearing and her not-quite-perfect English, searched the
faces of her guests.  She seemed relieved to find confusion in their
features.  Only the Prince, still chortling to himself, seemed in high
spirits.

"Yes, Miss Lloyd," said Abigail Merrymeade.

"Do explain.  I'm afraid the rest of us are not as clever as either you
or the Prince."

Lady Merrymeade's husband, apparently exhausted from the journey, was
sitting next to Constance.  He was perhaps the oldest man she had ever
seen, a mere sketch of a man, the walking memory of what he had once
been.  Even at this early hour, with the commotion of dinner, he had
fallen fast asleep.  His closed eyes and occasional snort were the only
features that separated him from most of the other diners.

Then a strange thing happened.  Abigail Merrymeade looked directly at
Joseph, a stare of both intimacy and challenge.  Constance knew at once
that she was the one, she was the woman who must have broken his heart.
A single glance at Joseph confirmed it.  His lips were set so firmly
they were almost white, and she could see his hand clench his napkin.

"Well," stated Philip from behind the centerpiece, stammering in his
attempt to help her.

"My dear fiancee means that, in America, the children are not nearly as
well behaved as they are here."

How much sherry and claret had he consumed?

It was all she could do to keep from ducking beneath the table.

Constance began to open her mouth to explain when Joseph piped up to
try and change the topic of conversation.

"Miss Lloyd and I had quite an adventure as I was escorting her to
Hastings House."

If possible, she would have given every item of clothing, including the
ones she was wearing, if the floor would show mercy and swallow her
within the next half minute.  Could this meal get any worse?

"Do tell, Smith."  Philip's voice was eager.

"Well."  Joseph carefully avoided her eyes.

"When I escorted her from Cowes to Hastings House, we were held up by
cutthroats.  Only Miss Lloyd's quick thinking and steady aim with a
revolver saved us."

"Mr.  Smith," countered Constance.

"I believe you are leaving out your own part."  She turned to the other
guests.

"You see, he managed to disarm and disable some men lurking in the
bushes.  Had it not been for Mr.  Smith's bravery and ability, I would
not be here myself."

"What?"  The prince was so riveted, he put down his fork.

"Do you mean to tell me that you both were involved in a
life-threatening adventure?"

Joseph nodded hesitantly.

"Well, Your Majesty, at the time I don't believe we realized the true
danger.  But the point is that Miss Lloyd was worth any five men when
it came to handling the situation."

There was a hum of excitement.  Philip--nodding to the manservant with
the claret, who obligingly refilled his glass--looked at Viola, who
immediately glanced away from him.

"Do tell us all, Smith!"  The Prince's voice boomed across the table.
Joseph hesitated, and again leaned towards Constance.

"I am afraid, Your Majesty, that I promised Miss Lloyd I would tell no
one of the adventure.  I am a man of my word."

"Fat lot of good that does me," Constance muttered under her breath.

"Miss Lloyd," the Prince commanded.

"Please give Smith here permission to relate the tale.  I am well
disposed to hear an adventure."

"Well, Your Majesty," she began, twisting the napkin between her
fingers.

"I'm afraid Mr.  Smith has been overly generous with his praise."

"Balderdash!"  The Prince pounded a meaty fist on the table, causing
the centerpiece to rumble and the crystal to vibrate.

"Smith here is nothing if not honest.  To a fault, I might add.  It's
most bothersome to get any information from him at all."

"That is because Mr.  Smith has many secrets," purred Abigail
Merrymeade.  Constance had an unexpected, happy image of Lady
Merrymeade being consumed by the centerpiece.

Joseph merely addressed Constance.

"Miss Lloyd, with your permission, may I relate the story of our
adventure?  Or, rather, our misadventure?"

Constance had no choice but to acquiesce.  And Joseph, who thus far had
demonstrated a remarkable ability to use words sparingly, proceeded to
weave the tale with such wondrous skill, Constance herself was
completely caught up in the narrative.

He left nothing out, from the oysters that had made him ill to her
shooting the hat off one of the thieves, and finally, in a description
that defied logic but was fully accepted by the audience, he recounted
her turning the tables on the thieves, forcing them to run away in
fright.  He merely mentioned his own part in passing.

"In short," he concluded, "Miss Lloyd forced nine armed men to throw
down their weapons and flee in terror from both herself, a beautiful
lady wearing a stylish traveling suit, and a pigment manufacturer
disabled by an unwholesome mollusk."

During the tale no one had moved.  Even the servants, fully absorbed by
the account, had allowed the meats to cool and the ices to warm.  At
the conclusion, Prince Edward chortled in delight.

"Excellent, Smith!  Well told, well told indeed!"  And then he motioned
to the head butler, who, in silent understanding, made a subtle gesture
to the other servants.  In the briefest of moments, champagne flutes
were followed quickly by cork-popping and the pouring of Charles
Heidsieck's wine.

"Let us have a toast," announced the future King of England.

"To Constance Lloyd, a most welcome addition to any gathering, and a
veritable flower amongst women."

As everyone but Constance raised their glasses, except for old Lord
Merrymeade, who had started to drool discreetly from the left side of
his mouth, their faces reflected a turbulent resignation.  They all
recognized that she was the new favorite, the chosen one.  Joseph
Smith, with his poetic and flattering account of their adventure, had
kindled the romantic spark within the Prince, a man who had grown to
adulthood with little but his imagination for companionship.  The
desire to live and experience such enticing dangers and triumphs had
always been out of his reach.  Such excitement had always been kept
safely at bay.

Constance Lloyd, the exotic American beauty, was the personification of
his still-vigorous boyhood dreams.  Through her, perhaps, he could
experience the daring exploits that had so long been denied him.

Joseph Smith's words had elevated her from the ranks of a comely dinner
companion to that of number one object of desire.  This was not the
first time the Prince had singled out a woman upon whom to cast his
robust attentions.  If she desired, after she was safely married to
Philip, she would be invited to join a revolving cast of women,
including the infamous "Skittles" of bowling alley fame.

In that single toast, Constance realized that she had just made a
tableful of potential enemies.

Joseph Smith, sitting four seats away from the flower amongst women,
silently cursed his own ability to tell a story.

When the women withdrew to the parlor after dinner, the men remained
behind to smoke, drink port, and discuss all things of a masculine
nature.  It was an understood truth that men required time by
themselves to utter their baser sentiments, to speak their less evolved
or cultured concepts.  And it would never do to insult or in any way
frighten the ladies with those manly notions.

"I say, that Miss Lloyd has a most damned attractive wardrobe, does she
not?"  Lord Trent smiled as he accepted a fragrant cigar from the
butler.

"And a most fetching hairstyle, what?"

"Indeed she does," agreed Lord Collins, swirling the port and admiring
the liquor fingers suspended on the side of the glass.

"What would you call that hairstyle?"

"I daresay it's of a classical nature, much like one would see on an
ancient urn," offered another gentleman, snipping the tip off his cigar
with a tool from his watch fob.

"The ribbons contrast nicely with the color of her hair, though."

Throughout the conversation, the prince simply smiled, as if
eavesdropping on lavish praise of his personal attributes.  Philip was
busy with his port and preventing the butler from removing the last of
his claret and champagne before he had time to swallow each last
drop.

Joseph Smith, only vaguely aware of the other men's discussion, ran a
finger along the rim of his snifter and wondered how he could have been
such an absolute fool.

"So tell me, Miss Lloyd, what sort of artillery do you favor?"  Lady
Collins inquired, accepting a cup of tea.

"In all honesty, Lady Collins, that was a lucky shot indeed that I let
off on those men.  Nothing more."

Constance was very aware of the open stares of the women now that they
were away from the men.  There was challenge and speculation on all of
their faces.  The only exception was Princess Alexandra, who was
unfailingly cheerful and polite.  At one point Constance detected a
sympathetic smile from the princess, for which she was more than
grateful.

"Once I heard of a man in Africa," continued Lady Collins.

"He shot a tiger right between the eyes, then ate the meat.  A rather
glorious image, is it not?  Man triumphing over the wild and all
that."

"Have you ever shot anything alive?"  Lady Merrymeade asked
Constance.

She suddenly felt ill, shaking her head and hoping that someone,
anyone, would change the topic.

"Come, come, Abigail," said Viola.

"I believe Miss Lloyd is rather tired of this topic.  Let us speak of
other things."

"Don't be modest, Miss Lloyd."  Abigail Merrymeade did not even make a
pretense of selecting a sweet or holding a cup of tea.  She sat
directly across from Constance, her hands braced on the arms of a
chair, her eyes unwavering.

"I know Joseph very well.  Very well indeed.  And I have never heard
him speak so.  He was a veritable gusher, was he not, Lady Collins?"

"I should say so, my dear.  Miss Lloyd, did you ever fire arms in your
war?"

Constance felt as if her stomach had been kicked.

"I, well..  . That was a very long time ago."

"Not really," said Lady Merrymeade.

"A few short years, in actuality.  But to return to the subject, Joseph
was quite taken with your talents, Miss Lloyd.  Whenever I see him in a
setting such as this, I am so very aware of his background."

"Whatever do you mean, Lady Merrymeade?"  asked the Princess.

Abigail paused slightly, but continued.

"What I mean, Your Majesty, is that Mr.  Smith is so very much out of
his element here.  He was not to the manner born, so to speak."

"My husband enjoys his company a great deal," replied the Princess.

"Mr.  Smith is very knowledgeable in science and technology, which is
of great interest to the Prince, just as it was to his father, Prince
Albert."

"Not to mention, Your Highness, Mr.  Smith tells a ripping good yarn!"
Lady Barrington added.

"And he is most handsome.  I always feel a man should be as handsome as
possible, and both Lord Hastings and Mr.  Smith seem to me to be the
very models of masculine beauty."

"And they are such close friends," Viola said with a wink towards
Constance, an acknowledgment of the successful change of topic.

"I have known Mr.  Smith for years and years, ever since Philip used to
bring him home for school holidays.  Even then they were quite a
striking pair."

There was a murmur of agreement.  Abigail's stance remained firm, and
Constance suddenly did not feel well.

There was malice in her eyes, Constance thought.  Genuine malice.

"Miss Lloyd, getting back to the guns, you must do the fair sex a
favor by joining the shoot tomorrow morning!"  Lady Harrington
suggested.

"No, really ..."

But the princess had heard.

"Oh, what a splendid idea!  Please, Miss Lloyd, do take a crack at it,
will you not?"

"What if she is a truly awful shot, and kills one of the men?"  another
woman said.

"That may not be such a bad thing," said Abigail Merrymeade, with a
tone light enough to evoke giggles from the women, but with an
unmistakable, chilling undertone.

Constance watched, realizing she could not possibly excuse herself
until the prince returned with the men, and the royals retired.

"I really--" began one woman.

"Oh, heavens, I hear the men coming!"

"Why, that was no time at all," said the princess.

The only woman who seemed undisturbed was Lady Trent, who was
reverently touching a curtain.  Earlier she had occupied herself with
examining a porcelain bird from a shelf.

The men entered in a cloud of smoke, in spite of the fact that they
were no longer smoking.  They had inhaled enough on their last puff to
discharge a stream of fumes for the next quarter hour.

The princess organized card games of poker, whist, auction bridge, and
chow chow for anyone who was interested, while others gathered in
clusters to talk, or retired to a corner to read a book or simply enjoy
the comfort of the large room.

Philip sat in a chair and, along with Lord Merrymeade, fell into a
sound sleep.

"Constance."  Joseph was behind her.

"Please forgive me."

She took a deep breath and continued to examine book spines from the
shelf.  Not knowing what to say, she did not reply to his statement.

"Do you think I should give Byron another shot?  I've never
really..."

"Please, Constance."

His voice was so urgent that she faced him.  His expression was tense,
the scar on his left cheek seeming more visible than before.  Perhaps
it was the glow of the candles.  Perhaps it was the set of his
features.

She very much wanted to ask him how he came about getting that scar.
Had it been in childhood?  Had it occurred more recently?  It must have
been painful, although now it was so very faint that it was hard to
detect in most lights.

"Constance, look at me."

"I am."

"No.  Your mind is elsewhere.  I am trying to apologize for the story
over dinner.  You know that I would never do anything to hurt you,
never.  But I got caught up in the tale, carried away with my own
words.  Are you listening?"

"Joseph, I don't feel well."  Immediately, he held out his hand to
steady her, very gently, so as not to attract any attention.

"What is wrong?"

She was beginning to feel faint at the thought.

"They want me to shoot tomorrow, want me to shoot with the men.  But I
can't.  I can't.  Because of what happened during the war.  There was a
Yankee.  It was hot on the road, and it all happened so fast.  I can't
shoot a rifle for sport, not ever, Joseph.  I can't, because I killed a
man once."

"It will be fine," he soothed, wanting very much to take her into his
arms.  He somehow wasn't surprised by her revelation, as if he had
known all along that she had some secrets buried.  They all had secrets
that needed to remain buried.

"I will think of something to get you out of it."

She straightened, as if suddenly aware of their surroundings.  The hum
of the conversations seemed to begin again, and she shook her head.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be.  Now how about giving Byron another chance?  The poor fellow
suffered enormously for his art, you know."

And somehow the evening passed.

Abigail Merrymeade, although engaged in a fierce game of chow chow with
the Princess, managed to observe every detail of the exchange between
Joseph and Constance, although she was too far away to hear anything
they said.  What she did glean was their intensity, the closeness, an
aura about them that in no way existed between Miss Lloyd and her
fiance, the ever-cheerful Lord Hastings.

When the prince and princess reluctantly retired, Constance walked over
to Joseph, who stood before the fireplace.

"Good night," she whispered.

He glanced up in the mirror over the mantel, and their eyes locked in
the reflection.  She was standing so close, her shoulder was almost
touching his chest.  And they just stared at the image of the two of
them, as if it were a wedding portrait.  There was something in their
expressions, a breathless hope, that seemed to capture a moment for
eternity.

For whatever had gone wrong that evening, the sight of Constance and
Joseph side by side seemed very, very right.

Everyone was expected to be down in the breakfast room, if not promptly
by eight-thirty, at least sometime before half-past ten.  The men
sported their shooting tweeds, the women were resplendent in their
morning dresses--newly purchased for this meal alone, to be packed away
in tissue and netting and not seen again until they left Sandringham.
They dallied over covered dishes arranged on the sideboard, speaking in
low voices about what the day might bring, what splendid weather for an
al fresco luncheon, what game would be bagged that morning.

Constance, her hair arranged by Stella, was in the breakfast room on
time, her green and white striped gown pristine and crisp.  Philip was
not yet down, not noticeable in itself, for most of the guests had not
yet appeared.

She stood with her plate, passing by the kidneys, creamed eggs, quail,
sliced pheasant, rashers of bacon, and oatmeal before settling on a
roll and a cup of coffee.

"Why, Miss Lloyd, what a lovely gown," Joseph whispered next to her
ear.

She smiled, not looking up at him.  There was no need.

"You don't think the green and white stripes make me look like a
wandering window awning?"

"Well, that it does.  But seldom have I seen a more attractive window
awning.  Butter?"

"Yes, thank you."

"And are you not going to comment on my own fetching outfit?  I
stitched it myself."

Now she looked at him, at the beautifully cut brown tweed jacket with
leather-covered buttons.  He was splendid in the morning light, his
hair freshly brushed.

"Did you really make that?"

"No.  But I knew the shock of thinking that I did would cause you to
stand still so I could reach the eggs."

Constance and Joseph laughed, and the others glanced up with foggy
expressions, not yet through their first cups of coffee or tea.

"So, Miss Lloyd, will you do me the favor of a ride this morning?"
Joseph returned to the buffet.

"A ride?"

"Yes.  While the others are shooting, or busy in the drawing room
assassinating characters, I thought a ride would be quite the thing.
Philip will join us as well--I asked him last evening, after everyone
else retired."

"But don't you wish to shoot?"

"Not today.  I'd rather ride, and so, I'm sure, would Lord Hastings."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Don't thank me until you see me on a horse."  He winked, and then went
to the large table and sat between two other gentlemen.  For a moment
she just watched him, easy and amiable, able to slip into any
situation, it seemed, with surprising dexterity.

And yet he had just rearranged set plans to keep her from being forced
to shoot.  A single thought crossed her mind.

Who on earth was Joseph Smith?

By late morning Constance and Joseph were in the stables, selecting
their mounts.  She hesitated, thinking that he was most likely a poor
horseman.  After all, he'd had little access to horses as a youth.
Riding was the sort of thing one grew into, after years of practice.
She was about to suggest a quiet, gentle horse when Owen, Philip's
valet, arrived.

"Miss Lloyd, Mr.  Smith, Lord Hastings regrets to inform you that he is
not well this morning, and begs forgiveness for not riding with you."

"Oh, dear."  Constance buttoned her leather glove, the riding crop in
her grip.

"I must go and see how he is."

"Lord Hastings wishes to remain alone, Miss.  His illness is of a,
well, most delicate nature."

She had an image of Philip with such an illness, and realized it was
not an image she wished to pursue in her mind nor in reality.  The
origin of his disorder required even less imagination, as she thought
of the night before, the quantity and variety of wine he had
consumed.

"I see."

"Convey to Lord Hastings our sincere wishes for his recovery," Joseph
responded to Owen.  The young man shifted from one foot to the other,
as if to add more information.  Then he nodded and left, thrusting his
cap back on his head as he walked away.

Constance did not meet Joseph's gaze.

"Well," she said briskly, "I suppose we only need the two mounts, then.
Philip's is rather spirited, but he's already saddled."

"Why, Miss Lloyd, what a lovely gown," Joseph whispered next to her
ear.

She smiled, not looking up at him.  There was no need.

"You don't think the green and white stripes make me look like a
wandering window awning?"

"Well, that it does.  But seldom have I seen a more attractive window
awning.  Butter?"

"Yes, thank you."

"And are you not going to comment on my own fetching outfit?  I
stitched it myself."

Now she looked at him, at the beautifully cut brown tweed jacket with
leather-covered buttons.  He was splendid in the morning light, his
hair freshly brushed.

"Did you really make that?"

"No.  But I knew the shock of thinking that I did would cause you to
stand still so I could reach the eggs."

Constance and Joseph laughed, and the others glanced up with foggy
expressions, not yet through their first cups of coffee or tea.

"So, Miss Lloyd, will you do me the favor of a ride this morning?"
Joseph returned to the buffet.

"A ride?"

"Yes.  While the others are shooting, or busy in the drawing room
assassinating characters, I thought a ride would be quite the thing.
Philip will join us as well--I asked him last evening, after everyone
else retired."

"But don't you wish to shoot?"

"Not today.  I'd rather ride, and so, I'm sure, would Lord Hastings."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Don't thank me until you see me on a horse."  He winked, and then went
to the large table and sat between two other gentlemen.  For a moment
she just watched him, easy and amiable, able to slip into any
situation, it seemed, with surprising dexterity.

And yet he had just rearranged set plans to keep her from being forced
to shoot.  A single thought crossed her mind.

Who on earth was Joseph Smith?

By late morning Constance and Joseph were in the stables, selecting
their mounts.  She hesitated, thinking that he was most likely a poor
horseman.  After all, he'd had little access to horses as a youth.
Riding was the sort of thing one grew into, after years of practice.
She was about to suggest a quiet, gentle horse when Owen, Philip's
valet, arrived.

"Miss Lloyd, Mr.  Smith, Lord Hastings regrets to inform you that he is
not well this morning, and begs forgiveness for not riding with you."

"Oh, dear."  Constance buttoned her leather glove, the riding crop in
her grip.

"I must go and see how he is."

"Lord Hastings wishes to remain alone, Miss.  His illness is of a,
well, most delicate nature."

She had an image of Philip with such an illness, and realized it was
not an image she wished to pursue in her mind nor in reality.  The
origin of his disorder required even less imagination, as she thought
of the night before, the quantity and variety of wine he had
consumed.

"I see."

"Convey to Lord Hastings our sincere wishes for his recovery," Joseph
responded to Owen.  The young man shifted from one foot to the other,
as if to add more information.  Then he nodded and left, thrusting his
cap back on his head as he walked away.

Constance did not meet Joseph's gaze.

"Well," she said briskly, "I suppose we only need the two mounts, then.
Philip's is rather spirited, but he's already saddled."

"Why, Miss Lloyd, what a lovely gown," Joseph whispered next to her
ear.

She smiled, not looking up at him.  There was no need.

"You don't think the green and white stripes make me look like a
wandering window awning?"

"Well, that it does.  But seldom have I seen a more attractive window
awning.  Butter?"

"Yes, thank you."

"And are you not going to comment on my own fetching outfit?  I
stitched it myself."

Now she looked at him, at the beautifully cut brown tweed jacket with
leather-covered buttons.  He was splendid in the morning light, his
hair freshly brushed.

"Did you really make that?"

"No.  But I knew the shock of thinking that I did would cause you to
stand still so I could reach the eggs."

Constance and Joseph laughed, and the others glanced up with foggy
expressions, not yet through their first cups of coffee or tea.

"So, Miss Lloyd, will you do me the favor of a ride this morning?"
Joseph returned to the buffet.

"A ride?"

"Yes.  While the others are shooting, or busy in the drawing room
assassinating characters, I thought a ride would be quite the thing.
Philip will join us as well--I asked him last evening, after everyone
else retired."

"But don't you wish to shoot?"

"Not today.  I'd rather ride, and so, I'm sure, would Lord Hastings."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Don't thank me until you see me on a horse."  He winked, and then went
to the large table and sat between two other gentlemen.  For a moment
she just watched him, easy and amiable, able to slip into any
situation, it seemed, with surprising dexterity.

And yet he had just rearranged set plans to keep her from being forced
to shoot.  A single thought crossed her mind.

Who on earth was Joseph Smith?

By late morning Constance and Joseph were in the stables, selecting
their mounts.  She hesitated, thinking that he was most likely a poor
horseman.  After all, he'd had little access to horses as a youth.
Riding was the sort of thing one grew into, after years of practice.
She was about to suggest a quiet, gentle horse when Owen, Philip's
valet, arrived.

"Miss Lloyd, Mr.  Smith, Lord Hastings regrets to inform you that he is
not well this morning, and begs forgiveness for not riding with you."

"Oh, dear."  Constance buttoned her leather glove, the riding crop in
her grip.

"I must go and see how he is."

"Lord Hastings wishes to remain alone, Miss.  His illness is of a,
well, most delicate nature."

She had an image of Philip with such an illness, and realized it was
not an image she wished to pursue in her mind nor in reality.  The
origin of his disorder required even less imagination, as she thought
of the night before, the quantity and variety of wine he had
consumed.

"I see."

"Convey to Lord Hastings our sincere wishes for his recovery," Joseph
responded to Owen.  The young man shifted from one foot to the other,
as if to add more information.  Then he nodded and left, thrusting his
cap back on his head as he walked away.

Constance did not meet Joseph's gaze.

"Well," she said briskly, "I suppose we only need the two mounts, then.
Philip's is rather spirited, but he's already saddled."

He began to speak, then stopped, his eyes still focused with an
unsettling intensity.

"You're welcome."  His mouth formed the words soundlessly.

Abruptly, he rose to his feet, extending a hand down to her.  She
accepted, and he pulled her to him.  For a moment they stood very
still, and so close they could feel the heat of each other's body.

"Constance, I..."  he began, then he stopped.

"Yes?"

"I have not been honest, and now I feel I must..  ."

"Ho there!  Smith, Miss Lloyd!"  Barreling over the hill on foot was
Lord Collins.  Joseph took a step back from Constance, dropping her
hand.  Collins had a rifle at his side.

"Bit of luck finding the two of you here, what?"

"Not as I see it," mumbled Joseph.  Then, in a louder voice, "Hello,
Collins."

"Sir," Constance said, nodding to the other man as he approached.

"I say, have either of you seen a rather badly wounded pheasant?  I
shot one back there, and the blasted thing seems to be intent on
playing games."

"No, I'm afraid we have not seen a pheasant," Joseph said.

"No?  Pity.  Thought this one was in the bag.  Are you two heading
back?  It's about time for luncheon."

"I..  ."  Constance stammered.

"Yes.  Yes, we should get back, Miss Lloyd," Joseph said.

"Yes," she breathed, an uncomfortable tightness in her throat.

"Of course."

"Jolly good, what?  Shall we all head back together?"

"Certainly."  Joseph gathered Lucifer's reins, and with only a moment's
hesitation, handed Lyric to Constance.

"I'll be fine," she said in answer to his unspoken question, and he
smiled.

"So, what do you think of the Queen's eldest son?  Quite the chap,
isn't he?"

Lord Collins walked beside Constance and Joseph the entire journey back
to the stable, perfectly content with his one-sided conversation.

There was so much Constance wanted to say.  But perhaps this was
better, she decided.  Perhaps this was really all for the best.

Constance, claiming a fierce headache--which, in fact, was the absolute
truth--did not appear for luncheon.

Stella offered to bring her a tray, but the mere thought of any food
was more than unappealing.  All she wanted to do was collect her
thoughts, and try to untangle her emotions.

What had happened out there in the countryside?

Why was she feeling so peculiar, both light-headed and nauseous at the
same time?  It was more than just the physical shock of tumbling off a
horse.  She had done that on enough occasions to know that any symptoms
she was experiencing now had little to do with horses.

Yet, deep down, she knew the reason.  It was because with Joseph she
had her first taste of happiness, real happiness, in as long as she
could remember.

Now she again knew the meaning of joy, of delight, of taking pleasure
from every waking moment.  For the first time in over a decade she was
thinking of the future, not living an hour-by-hour existence, not
measuring out her laughter in teaspoons.

The reason was apparent, and a sick feeling twisted through her.

She had fallen in love with Joseph.

And she was engaged to be married to Philip.

"Oh, no," she sighed, flipping onto her back.

The feelings had been coming on slowly, but then, like a boulder
rolling down the side of a mountain, it seemed that everything was
accelerated and nothing could stop the emotions.  She had never before
been in love, although she had loved.  Now she was completely, utterly
in love--with her fiance's best friend.

Granted, it was an odd friendship.  The two men seemed to have very
little in common other than shared schooling as children.  But still
there was no denying the bond, no dismissing the power of their
fondness.  She could never come between them, nor would she wish to.

Nor could she.  For the simple fact was that Joseph Smith held her in
no regard.  He liked her, of course.  There were some moments when his
sentiments seemed to go beyond like, but then he would pull away,
realizing his error.

That's what he was going to tell her that morning, before Lord Collins
arrived.  And that is why he had said it was better this way.  How
humiliating.

And so she would marry Philip, and see Joseph every few months when he
came into town.  He would marry, probably sooner rather than later, and
then he would bring his family.  His wife would be blonde, perhaps. She
would be elegant and clever and she would watch Joseph, observe his
mood changes, place her hand over his when he said something amusing at
the dinner table.

He would place a shawl about her shoulders when the evenings grew cold,
his hands lingering longer than need be.  She would touch his hair, the
thick glossy hair, and her finger would drop to his lips and she would
trace their delicate outline with tenderness, and his eyes would close
at the feel of her touch.

She hated his wife.

Suddenly Constance sat up.  She needed to take a walk, to stop
tormenting herself with these thoughts.

Dressing quickly, without disturbing Stella, Constance brushed her hair
and pinned it up, splashing cold water over her eyes to keep her tears
from becoming too obvious.  Her gown, a pale yellow silk brocade, was
far too lovely for moping about, and by rights the image that she saw
of herself reflected in the swing mirror should have cheered her.

Instead, she shrugged and left the room, roaming through the halls,
musing at how very much wandering through unfamiliar corridors she had
been doing lately.

Sandringham was, indeed, impressive.  She yawned, and then smiled in
spite of herself.

Here she was, Constance Lloyd, up until the month before a governess in
a modest household on the Isle of Wight, yawning her way around the
Prince of Wales's home.  The absurdity of the situation was
extraordinary, and her steps began to regain some of their spring.

And then she saw him, a figure stooped over a threshold.  There was no
mistaking the jacket, or the reddish glints in his hair.  It was
Joseph.

It was as if her mental recognition had called out to him.  His head
snapped up, and at once he was standing up.

"Miss Lloyd."  He nodded uncomfortably.

"Mr.  Smith," she returned, giving a regal inclination of her own head.
Now was the time to begin behaving as she should.

She started to walk past him, very aware of how he was staring at her.
Glancing down at his feet, she saw a leather case and a stack of vials,
some utensils, and bits of cloth.  Looking away, she continued her
stroll, then she stopped.

"What are you doing?"  Her curiosity won out over her best
intentions.

"I am standing in the hallway.  You missed a nice luncheon, by the way.
The Prince consumed an extended family of quails."

"Where has everyone gone?"

"Some are upstairs napping.  Others are milling about on the lawn.  I'm
afraid Collins has gathered a party to search for his pheasant, so the
countryside is not entirely safe at the moment."

She tried to hide her grin.

"The poor pheasant is going to perish of exhaustion before his wounds."
Then she sobered.

"Thank you again for this morning."

"You are welcome.  Are you feeling well?"

She nodded.

"Better, thank you.  Where did you learn to ride like that?"

"I know, I'm not the most polished of horsemen, but..  ."

"No!  No, I mean you are excellent.  Really."

He seemed pleased.

"I, well.  I don't know."

With a shrug, he brushed off the topic.

She was about to continue down the hall when she paused.

"What were you about to say this morning?  Before we were interrupted.
You started to say something."

"Was I?  I don't recall."  Yet she could tell by his expression that he
knew precisely what he was going to say.

"Philip was not down at luncheon."

"He wasn't?"

Joseph shook his head.

"I understand Viola brought a tray up to him."

"That was kind of her.  I believe they are good friends.  I mean, it is
wonderful that Philip has such a good friend."

"So am I, Constance.  I am also his friend.  And yours."  He extended
his hand.

"Perhaps it would be best to simply forget all about this morning.  And
about what happened in the library as well.  Friends?"  She nodded.

"Friends."

Why did she have an urge to cry?  She did not want to leave him, not
yet.  Just a moment longer.  Just a few more moments alone.

"What are you doing there?"  She gestured to the leather case and
vials.

"Nothing.  Just standing here."

"No.  I mean with this reticule, portmanteau, or whatever it is.  Tell
me, what are you doing?"

The smile left his face.

"Please, Constance, do us both a favor and forget about this as
well."

"Now you have my interest!  I refuse to leave until you confess all."
She peered down at the case.

"What are you doing?  Putting something there, or taking something
away?"

"I am serious.  Please, Constance, go on now."

"Hmm.  Whatever it is, you're doing it on the sly."  He did not
reply.

"What about the servants?  Do they know what you are doing?"

"Good-bye, Constance.  Go away.  Now."

"Wait a moment."  She stared directly into his face.

"You are serious."

"Yes, I am."

"This won't get you into trouble, will it?"

"Not if you remain silent."

"Joseph, this sounds dangerous."  She took a closer look at the vials,
and he stepped in her way.

"I just don't want to see you getting into trouble."

"Nor do I."

The hallway was very quiet, muffled by carpets and thick walls.  They
were alone.

He was staring at her, his expression unreadable.  There was a vein at
his left temple that began to throb, and she watched it, unable to pull
her gaze away.  She had noticed it before, that morning at the inn,
when he had helped her to her feet.  Very slowly, she stepped toward
him, and touched the vein with her finger.

Again he remained motionless.

"There is a vein right here," she said softly.

"It seems to be beating."

He did not blink.

"It only happens when I'm--" he swallowed "--when I'm agitated."

"Are you agitated now?"

The nod was so subtle, she would have missed it if she had not had her
finger on his temple.

"It feels quite odd."

Her eyes focused on his, and, for a moment, held before she dropped her
hand.

"Be careful, Joseph.  Please be careful."

She began to walk away.

"And you, too, my ..."  He paused.

"My friend."

She did not look back, but even without turning around, she could feel
his heated gaze on the back of her neck, and it was with relief that
she finally turned the corner.

Do you draw, Miss Lloyd?"

Abigail Merrymeade bestowed an uncharacteristic smile upon Constance.
There was something unnatural about the expression.  The rest of her
features seemed pained by the turn of her mouth, as if one of them had
betrayed the set rule of perpetual disdain.

The women were just gathering in the salon for afternoon tea.  Most of
the men were still in the fields, gloating over the day's kill or
enjoying their refreshments in the carpeted tent.

"No, Lady Merrymeade.  I am afraid my talents do not run to drawing,
though not for want of trying."

Perhaps Abigail was simply attempting conversation, Constance thought
as she returned to the oversized atlas she was examining.

"Do you work needlepoint or embroider?"

"Well," Constance said, tracing the route of the Mississippi River with
her finger, "I have attempted to do both, but I fear the end results
have not justified the effort."

"Perhaps music is your forte, Miss Lloyd."

Constance gave a noncommittal shrug.

"I do enjoy music."

"What instrument do you play?"

It was no use.  Constance gently closed the leaves of the atlas and
turned her full attention to the interrogator.

"I do play the piano, but not well.  Only children's tunes, really."

"Come, come, Miss Lloyd.  We are amongst friends here.  I feel you are
holding out on me."

"I am not holding out, Lady Merrymeade.  I play the piano, a bit."

Lady Trent, who had been examining a watercolor landscape, turned to
Abigail and Constance.

"The piano is a lovely instrument.  Have you seen the exquisite piano
in the music room?"

"No, Lady Trent.  I did not take note."  Abigail turned again to
Constance.

"So you play the piano?  How very extraordinary.  I did not realize
that a governess would play the piano.  I can only assume you learned
this talent as a very young girl."  The tone of her voice indicated
that Abigail disapproved of Constance as a child.

"I did."  She wore the yellow silk gown she would have worn at
luncheon, not feeling the need to change, since no one other than
Joseph had seen it.

"And tell me, will you entertain us by playing the piano at
Sandringham?"

"I'm afraid not.  I'm only current on nursery tunes."

"How amusing, Miss Lloyd.  I suppose being a governess, playing the
piano, and becoming betrothed to the second son of a duke has given you
ample opportunity to hone your storytelling skills."

"I do not tell stories on a regular basis, except for the pleasure of
children.  Are you interested in hearing one?"

Lady Collins managed to hide a giggle by turning it into a convincing
cough.

"Excuse me."

"How droll."  Abigail again attempted to smile, but the result was a
simple display of her protruding, discolored teeth, which she ended
before the full effect of the expression could be appreciated.

Viola Rathbottom entered the room.

"The princess will be down shortly," she announced.

"Oh, Miss Rathbottom," Constance said.

"How is Lord Hastings?"

Viola blushed as Abigail smiled.

"I don't know what you mean, Miss Lloyd."

"I understand that you were kind enough to bring him a tray for
luncheon.  Thank you.  I myself was not feeling quite well, so I was
not much good.  Is he feeling better?"

Viola seemed relieved.

"Yes.  Yes, indeed, Miss Lloyd, I do believe he is beginning to rally.
Sorry, I didn't quite understand what you meant before."

Constance bit her lip, watching as Viola sat next to Lady Trent.
Abigail continued to smile.

By the time the princess arrived for tea, it was just after six in the
evening, and the men were returning from the field and from their
various activities.  Constance could hear Philip's voice as he laughed
at something the prince said, although Philip alone seemed to find the
remark humorous.

Hearing his voice in the hallway, Constance had a sinking feeling in
her stomach.  That was her future husband, the detached chuckle, the
disembodied voice.  Intellectually, she realized the fact, but
emotionally, the thought was almost unbelievable.

In a curious way, she felt she knew him less now than she had before
they ever danced at Cowes.  Then, when she would watch him ride by on
his horse, she imagined his character, adding a personality to fit his
appearance.  As a result she had felt close to him, but in truth she
was close to her own image of Philip.

It had been so different with Joseph.  Like peeling an onion skin, she
was learning about him gradually, and every layer revealed more depth
and strength of character.

He had been able to control Lucifer with sheer strength and force of
will, rescuing her in the process.  He handled most things in the same
way, she realized, through strength and desire.

"Miss Lloyd?  Lady Collins was asking you a question.  You seemed to be
a million miles away."  Lady Trent smiled.

"I'm sorry.  Could you please repeat the question, Lady Collins?"

"It was nothing important, Miss Lloyd.  I was just inquiring whether
you and Lord Hastings had set a date for the wedding."

"The wedding.  Yes.  Well, we have no fixed date, Lady Collins.  The
Duchess wished to wait until after this visit to set a date."

Viola paused, watching the exchange while pretending to be interested
in a stereoscope of the Coliseum in Rome.

"I would imagine the date will be sooner rather than later."  Lady
Trent beamed.

"Ah, young love.  How glorious it is, is it not?"

Again, Constance smiled in reply.  Lady Trent came closer to the mark
than she could have ever imagined with her comment about young love.
The way she felt, glorious it was not.

The prince chose Abigail Merrymeade to be his escort into dinner that
evening, and she accepted the honor with studied elegance, only the
distinct brightness in her eyes indicating that she was both surprised
and gratified by his selection.

The princess, who had been listening politely to a description of the
day's kill, went into dinner with the gentleman on her left, who
happened to be Philip.

Constance was alone for a moment, and then Joseph was at her side.

"Shall we?"  He crooked his arm towards her.

"Of course.  But we do have plenty of time.  All those with rank will
proceed us, and since we are but plain Miss Lloyd and Mr.  Smith, we
might as well do something useful."

"You are right, Miss Lloyd.  Shall we write a novel?"

"Well, we do have the time.  But how about something more useful?
Perhaps we can find a cure for the common cold."

"Or ascertain why men fight wars."

"Maybe we can discover a way to make politicians incorruptible."

"And to make week-old fish taste like sugarplums," he laughed.

She was very aware of his body, of the warmth of his arm against hers.
Glancing down at her, he seemed about to speak but stopped himself.

"Joseph," she whispered.

A sharpness came into his eyes, a clarity, as if he was seeing her
without the obstruction of details, without the mundane aspects of her
features.  Instead, it was as if he was looking beyond features and
into her soul.

They had stopped walking for a moment, and then he tossed back his
head, clearing his thoughts, changing the tone.

"Here we go."  His voice was rough, and he was looking straight
ahead.

They were seated next to each other at dinner, although she was
compelled to engage in a lengthy discussion about quail eggs in aspic
with Lord Trent, and how to slice the eggs so they do not remind one
overmuch of glaring eyes.  Halfway through the fish While all of this
was occurring, Constance was in a panic, loosening his cravat, asking
for help.  Finally their eyes met, and with unmistakable emphatic
significance, he blinked downwards, toward her plate.

"Oh," she whispered, and while the ladies rose to their feet and fanned
him, and the men began taking turns clapping him between the shoulder
blades, Constance slipped the paper from under her plate, folded it
under the table, and tucked it into her sash.

Almost immediately, Joseph seemed to recover.

"Thank you.  Yes.  Thank you, sir.  No, no, I have quite enough water
.. ."

The meal concluded on schedule, the baffled Prince at one end of the
table, his unflappable wife at the other, and the happy butler, at last
in possession of Constance's fish plate.

"Poor man," sighed Lord Collins.

"Somehow, I just don't think that Mr.  Smith is having such a success
of it this weekend, what?"

"No, indeed," agreed his wife.

"The poor chap seems to have a bit of a thundercloud over his head.
Dearest, do me a favor, will you?"

"Of course."

"If Mr.  Smith attends tomorrow's shoot, do try to stand well away from
him.  I do not like the idea of that man armed with a weapon."

"I will, my pudding.  I will indeed stay away from the unfortunate
man."

The knock on Constance's door awoke her well before dawn.

Sleep had eluded her for most of the night, and it was a surprise that
sleeplessness is every bit as unpleasant in sumptuous surroundings,
with goosedown pillows and soft linen sheets, as in a tiny governess's
room with a slanted ceiling.

She pulled on her dressing gown and paused.  perhaps she had imagined
the knock.  Perhaps it had been a dream.

The second knock was just slightly louder, and more insistent.

Before she turned the doorknob, she paused.  There had always been
below-stairs whisperings about the goings-on in country houses.  It was
understood that the host and hostess would fix a blind eye on the
midnight visitings that were so routine, and even assist the cause of
adultery by arranging to have amorous couples located within convenient
reach of each other.  Their respective spouses were usually engaged in
their own diversions.

But in the darkness of the old, drafty hallways, guests were known to
get lost and confused.  There was a story making the rounds of a
certain MP who waited until the assigned hour, crept down the hall,
slipped into a room, and jumped into the bed itself, yelling
"Cock-a-doodle-do!"  at the top of his voice.

Unfortunately, his lady love had changed rooms without informing him of
her plan.  The MP ended up in bed with a very startled archbishop.

The only awkward moments came when a husband or wife, tiptoeing down a
carpeted corridor after a tryst, would pass each other.  It was
understood that the usual polite greetings could be dispensed with in
such cases.

Clutching her wrap with one hand, she opened the door.  And there stood
Joseph, completely dressed.

"Joseph?"

"I..."  He just stared at her for a moment, and in spite of her robe,
she was aware of an odd sensation of having no clothes on at all.

"What are you doing here?"  she whispered.  It was quite possible, even
probable, that the house would begin stirring soon, and that other
guests would be returning to their own rooms before sunrise.

"I am leaving," he said.

"I just wanted to say goodbye.  I didn't want you to think that I would
leave you without saying goodbye."

Constance stammered in confusion.

"What do you mean?  How can you leave before Sunday?"

"I must.  An urgent message was delivered to me after everyone else
retired."

"Does this have anything to do with your little vials?"

He said nothing, but his eyes conveyed his meaning.  The subject was
not to be spoken of.

"Joseph."  She reached out her hand, suddenly very aware that she might
not see him again until she was married.

"I will miss you," she said simply.

The words were so very inadequate, so meaningless compared to the
tumultuous emotions that seemed to choke her.

"And I," he stopped and grasped her hand, "I will miss you as well.  I
wish you the greatest joy, Constance.  With all of my heart, I wish you
nothing but joy."

He kissed the back of her hand, his lips pausing there for a moment
longer than necessary.

"Good-bye," he whispered.

"Good-bye, Joseph."

He began to walk, and stopped suddenly.

"Oh, I almost forgot.  A parcel should be delivered here to you
tomorrow, at the latest by Monday.  It's a delayed engagement gift."

"Thank you."  She smiled.

He seemed about to return to her side.  Instead he fixed a tweed cap on
his head, adjusting the brim over his eyes, and nodded once before he
left.

Constance watched him until he turned the corner.  Even then, she
remained in the same spot, as if willing him to return.

Not many of the guests came down for breakfast the following morning.
The breakfast salon, its sideboard laden with all of the delicacies
expected, was all but empty when Constance entered just before nine.

For a moment she paused, uncertain if she had wandered into the wrong
room, or perhaps the clock in her room had been pushed ahead, like so
many other of the clocks at Sandringham.

"You are not mistaken, Miss Lloyd.  We are all but abandoned this
morning."  Lord Collins greeted her from his position at the long
table.

"I do hope it was nothing I said."  She smiled uncertainly.  She was
exhausted after staying awake all night, thinking about Joseph, about
his expression as he stood in the hallway, and about his back, broad
and strong, as he left.

Lord Collins barked a peculiar laugh as he rose to his feet.

"Nothing you said could account for this, my dear.  My valet mentioned
that some of the guests are feeling rather ill this morning."

"Really?  I did not realize last night's revelries had taken so many
prisoners."

"Apparently that is not the case.  It seems another illness has taken
hold during the night.  Tell me, Miss Lloyd, did you eat all of your
fish last evening?"

"The fish?  Yes, I believe I did eat most of it."

"I was curious.  Lady Collins had her full portion, and does not feel
well today."

Constance poured herself a cup of tea.

"I do hope she improves."

Lord Collins waved a hand, not bothering to put down the bread he was
eating.

"Not to worry, my dear.  I appreciate the sentiments, but it does seem
that whenever we attend a royal weekend, one or both of us ends up
ill."

"Really?"  She sat down across the table from him.

"Indeed.  Is this your first visit to one of the royal homes?"

She nodded, and he continued.

"I believe the most diseased of the places is Windsor.  Both Lady
Collins and myself suffered from typhoid fever about two weeks after
our last visit there.  Others came down with it as well, and Lord
Ashberry--did you know him?  A fine man, although given to riding his
horses too hard.  Well, the upshot is that old Ashberry died."

"Poor man," she said distractedly.  There was something odd about the
situation, but she was unable to put the pieces together.  Something
was very wrong.

"Well, we can rest easy that we are not at Balmoral.  Now that place is
a cesspool of illness.  It's a wonder the royal family survived their
holidays there."

"Balmoral," she repeated.

"Yes.  In Scotland.  By the way, Miss Lloyd, did you see any cream up
there?  I seem to have missed the cream."

"I, yes."  She stood and retrieved the cream.

Scotland.  That was where Joseph had gone.  And the vials, his leather
portmanteau.  He had a complete knowledge of chemistry.  And, not
incidentally, he had little regard for the aristocracy.

Her teacup began to rattle, and she pushed it away.

"I say, Miss Lloyd, you are looking rather peaked yourself."

Was it possible that Joseph was responsible for these illnesses?

She thought back on some of their conversations.  He had liberal
leanings, to be sure.  But was he an anarchist?

No.  Impossible, she thought.  Then she recalled the passion with which
he spoke of making the world better for the underclass.  And those
strange men, Walker and Crimmins, who appeared out of nowhere to send
him off to Scotland.

Brown.  That was another man's name.  Brown.

"Lord Collins, please forgive me."  She smiled.

"I'm afraid I'm not feeling well myself."

"Go on then, my dear.  Take care of yourself."

With a light nod she left the breakfast parlor.

"Now, let's see," Lord Collins muttered.

"Was that a ham I saw next to the creamed eggs?"

Guests began leaving Sandringham just after noon.

Although most were scheduled to leave that afternoon, the departing
times were moved up by several hours.  Hatboxes and trunks and gun
cases were stacked in the hallway.  The valets and lady's maids bustled
about, their footsteps soundless on the carpets.  Carriages were
brought to the front entrance, and there was a great deal of mumbling
amongst those leaving.

"Must go back to town," said Lord Trent.

"Frightfully full schedule, you know."

"My youngest seems to have caught cold, and is calling for me,"
explained Lady Harrington.  No one pointed out that her youngest was
well into his forties.

Lord and Lady Merrymeade were also awaiting their carriage.  Lord
Merrymeade sat in a corner chair and closed the translucent lids of his
eyes, and within moments he seemed to be enjoying a deep slumber.

Abigail Merrymeade looked at Constance through the netting of her
fashionable hat.

"And where is dear Mr.  Smith?"

Constance almost slipped and said that he had left earlier.  Instead
she shrugged.

"I don't know, Lady Merrymeade.  I have not seen him since last
evening."

She hated to tell a lie, small though it was.

"How fascinating.  One can only assume that he is among the dearly
departed."

"Excuse me, Lady Merrymeade.  I need to find my fiance."

In truth, she hadn't seen Philip all day, and while he had not been
foremost in her mind, guilt prodded her to seek him out.

Philip entered the hallway with Viola and Owen, both men pale and
hesitant in their steps.  Philip's whiskers, however, were splendidly
brushed, and his boots polished to a high gloss.

"Philip, how are you feeling?"  He truly looked miserable.

"I have been better," he admitted with a small smile.  There was
something fragile about his appearance that made her want to take care
of him.

"We'll get you home in no time, no time at all," she soothed, smiling
at Viola.

It was while she patted his hand that she realized why her affection
for him seemed so familiar.  He was like one of her charges, one of the
children she had cared for as a governess.

Stella appeared with some questions about packing, and Constance was
relieved to have something else to think about.  The last thing she
wanted to dwell upon was the realization that in marrying Philip, she
was simply trading one position as a guardian for another.

Word of the incident at Sandringham spread quickly through the inner
circles of London, where it was the talk of the fashionable clubs, of
the best drawing rooms, and during walks and rides in Hyde Park.

Not that such an event was unusual, for many country house parties were
cut short by unknown illnesses.  Several years earlier, a great
assembly of peers intent on a week of shooting grouse was canceled the
day after the guests had arrived, and by the following week more than a
dozen of the guests had died, including valets and housemaids.

But the Sandringham affair was different.  Not only did it involve a
royal residence, but it had occurred in the home of the Prince of
Wales, the future King of England.

Rumors began to spread that, unlike other country house illnesses, the
events at Sandringham may very well have been intentional.  No one had
noticed a foul odor that weekend, which was usually a sign of stagnant,
putrid water.

Other bits of gossip were supplied, mostly by eager speculators who
were not in attendance those few days.  Although most of the guests
were well known to the Marlborough House set, there were a few
newcomers.

One was the American woman; a governess, by all accounts comely enough,
but something of a mystery.  Her intended groom, the youngest son of
the famous Mole Man, was known mostly from secondhand accounts of his
exploits, antics that continued well into manhood.  Nothing
particularly sinister was seen in the two, although they were indeed a
curious pair.

The single individual who prompted the most intense contemplation was
the wealthy Welshman, Joseph Smith.  Although he was a familiar sight
at the clubs in London, and at balls and parties, no one seemed to
really know that man.  He was a puzzle, that one.  He was always
nearby, yet nobody could claim true intimacy with the man.  The
exception was young Lord Hastings, who was known more for his ability
to ride a horse while fully intoxicated than for any astuteness of
character.

And Lady Merrymeade, when pressed on the issue, had mentioned that Mr.
Smith had been the first to leave Sandringham that weekend.  He was
long gone well before dawn, for she herself had seen him leaving from
her window.

Questions were raised, first as whispers, then in louder voices, and
finally as carefully phrased editorials in the more common newspapers.
How had the man really amassed his vast fortune?  Where did he come
from, for intrepid reporters could not find any details of his early
life.  Even at Oxford, there were dons and tutors who recalled him, but
they remembered a serious young man who read theology.

How did a theological scholar become a manufacturer, a financial
success, and a chemist as well?  He seemed extraordinarily familiar
with the most recent scientific discoveries, ones that were being
written about in France and Germany.  There was something terribly odd
with Mr.  Joseph Smith.

There seemed to be only one logical explanation: he was being funded.
An organization or, more likely, a foreign power was tunneling money
into Joseph Smith's company, and he was in turn using the proceeds to
finance a diabolically clever scheme to wipe out the royal family.

There were even more serious rumblings, and one newspaper actually
printed a front page story about Joseph Smith being arrested for high
treason, complete with an engraving of a gentleman in a full beard
being lead away by rough-looking London bobbies.  Upon closer
examination, it would be revealed that the man in the etching was, in
fact, a doctor who had been accused of murdering his wife four years
earlier.  No matter.  The headline said it was Smith, so most of London
believed it to be Smith.

Unfortunately for the newspaper, the account proved to be false.

But then something just as sensational happened.

Joseph Smith seemed to vanish from the face of the earth.

Philip was becoming more and more involved with his campaign.

After he had fully recovered from the Sandringham weekend, he seemed to
be in a fury of activity, always dashing through Hastings House with a
distracted expression on his face, usually followed closely by his
friend Mortimer.

On occasion, he would run to his room without speaking to anyone, using
a back staircase and telling Owen to go away and bother someone else.
It wasn't until Constance caught a glimpse of him that she understood
the reason for his haste and secrecy.  He was, in fact, covered with
egg shells, tomato bits, and great yellow gobs of raw egg yolk and
shiny, gelatinous white.  A lettuce leaf dangled from his shoulder like
a vegetable epaulette.

She assumed his speech had not gone as well as one would have hoped.

Philip had also enlisted the help of an outgoing MP to assist with the
campaign, although the Honorable Charles Beckersby seemed far more
interested in catching up on his sleep than in actively guiding Philip.
And his opponent seemed to be faring even worse than Philip when it
came to the popular vote, for Mr.  Jones--the Liberal candidate--was
routinely disguising himself with odd hats and eyeglasses to avoid
being attacked by the masses.

The real advantage Philip had was his family's money, and the simple
fact that much of Ballsbridge was dependent upon the Hastings estate
for their existence.  That alone all but guaranteed Philip's success.

And when the polling finally began, an event that took place over three
days, Philip took an early lead and never fell behind.  He was now a
Tory MP, and the household celebrated.

For Constance, however, nothing really changed.  Once again, her days
had fallen into a tedious routine, punctuated by interminable meals and
stilted conversations with Philip's family.  The only person with whom
she felt completely comfortable was the duke.  He alone brightened her
day, and she had taken to sharing tea with him every afternoon in his
underground lair.

And then she would retreat to her room, or walk on the grounds if the
weather was fine.  At least when she had been a governess, there had
been the unexpected behavior of the children to brighten the day.

One afternoon, just before tea, she was in the library when there was a
knock on the door.

"Miss Lloyd?  Excuse me," Stella bobbed.

"There is a most odd-shaped package that has just arrived for you,
express from Sandringham."

"Sandringham?  I wonder what it could possibly be.  May I see it,
please?"

She nodded, and in a moment returned with a rectangular object, several
feet long and wrapped in thick, brown paper.

Constance examined the label.

"It's not actually from Sandringham.  It was sent there for me after we
had left, and was simply forwarded from that place.  There is no return
name or address."

She reached for a letter opener to slice the string and pull apart the
brown paper.  The moment Constance saw it, she began to laugh, simply
because she did not know how else to react.

"What is it?"  Stella asked.

"It's a writing desk, a lap desk.  It was my mother's, and it was
ruined.  He had it repaired."

"Who sent you a desk?"

"Joseph did.  I mean, Mr.  Smith.  My God, you can hardly see where it
was splintered.  Look, Stella.  Even in the light, the grain looks
perfect.  How on earth did he manage to find someone to fix it?"

She touched the wood, wondering at the smoothness, at the way it looked
even finer than before.  Slowly she opened the lid, and the crystal ink
bottles, filled with inks of all colors, glittered.  There were quill
pens and two gold ones, and a fresh bundle of paper, elegant sheets
with her initials on the top.

"Is it nice, miss?"  asked Stella.

"It's beautiful."  Again she touched the soft wood; even the inlay felt
like velvet.

"Well, isn't this a surprise," said Stella, repressing the urge to grin
as she looked at the expression on her mistress's face.

"This is quite a surprise."

"It is, indeed."  When Constance opened one of the compartments, she
noticed something folded.  Tucked under a drawer was an envelope.

"I've never seen the like," Stella added.

"Um, it's lovely.  After tea I'll go up to my room and write."  She did
not want anyone else to see the letter.  It was hers, from Joseph.  No
one else should see it.

Carefully she placed the note back in the writing desk.

"Well, I believe I'll go downstairs now.  Are they all below?"

"Why, yes, Miss Lloyd.  Will you be joining the others today?"

She really wanted to skip tea altogether, or at least visit with the
duke rather than Dishy, the duchess, and Philip.

Instead of making an excuse, she simply smiled.

"I think today I should join them."

Together, Stella and Constance left the room, the desk, its note and
secrets hidden out of sight.

Someone else was in the red room for tea, along with Philip, the
duchess, and Cavendish.

Constance heard a woman's voice, soft and languid yet fully audible
from down the corridor.  It was a voice she had heard before.

Just then the door opened and Philip emerged, his face red, as if he
had just been through some terrible ordeal.

"Philip?"

He turned partially, careful not to slow his progress.

"The rally.  I don't want to be late."  He gave a half-wave, then
disappeared around a corner.

"Miss Lloyd?  Is that you?"

The duchess had heard her, and there was no other choice but to enter
the red room.

Stepping into the room, Constance first saw the duchess, a look of
delight on her face such as had not been seen since the triumph of the
Sandringham invitation.  Dishy sat in his usual chair, a folded
newspaper in his lap and a dollop of whipped cream from a cake dotting
the corner of his mouth.

"Miss Lloyd, we have thrilling news!"

The third person in the room was Viola.  She smiled from the blue and
gold wing chair.

"Miss Lloyd already knows, your grace."

"You told her about your engagement?  How on earth did you two meet?"

Constance was about to say at Sandringham, when something stopped her.
Viola gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

"Oh, we met..  ."  Constance began.

"On the grounds beyond.  Miss Lloyd was strolling in the orchard, and I
was there doing a watercolor."

"Yes," Constance agreed.

"It is such a pleasure to see you again, Miss Rathbottom.  And how did
that watercolor turn out?"

"Not well, I'm afraid.  It rained just after you left, and all of my
oaks ran into the apple trees."

"And who says a little rain is not destructive?"  Constance looked at
Viola, trying to decide why her visit to Sandringham was being kept a
state secret.  It would have made the duchess delirious with joy to
know that both of her future daughters-in-law had been with the prince
and princess.  Perhaps the secrecy was because Dishy had not been
issued an invitation.

"Indeed.  How very right you are, Miss Lloyd.  Sometimes, even mild
acts of nature can be dangerous."

The conversation was beginning to take a most cryptic turn.

"I'm afraid I haven't properly congratulated you."  Constance turned to
Philip's brother.  He nodded once, then flipped his newspaper over to
read the other side.

"Well, it seems no introductions are needed today," said the duchess.

"I have heard so much about you, Miss Lloyd," Viola began.

"It is so nice to meet you properly."

"Yes, it is.  The introduction by the ..."

"Orchard.  It was by the apple orchard."

"Of course.  That was less formal."

"My cousin, Lady Merrymeade, was at Sandringham at the same time you
were, I believe."

"Oh, yes.  I did have the pleasure of meeting Lady Merrymeade.  She is
also quite a capable artist.  The talent must run in your family."

Viola seemed perplexed.

"Did Abigail draw there?  That is unlike her.  Anyway, I have always
admired her drawings.  How often I've wished I could have her
talent."

"She is nothing if not talented," Constance agreed.

The duchess asked Viola to pour the tea, which she did easily, with no
show of nerves even before the august duchess.  Constance could not
help but admire her.

"Philip seemed to be leaving in a great hurry," Constance mentioned,
taking a sip of tea.

"Yes.  Yes, indeed he was."

"Well, it's no wonder he doesn't want to be with you, Viola," Dishy
said.  Constance turned in surprise, wondering if she had ever heard
him make a comment unless absolutely pressed to speak.

Viola looked down.

"What a kind thing to say, Cavendish."

"Come on.  You did nothing but torment the man for years and years.
Remember when you put him in that pit with all of the spiders?  He
would be there now, by God, if that scruffy little Joseph Smith hadn't
been visiting from school.  He was the only one who noticed Philip was
missing."

Viola set down her tea.

"It was most amusing.  It was all my idea, I must confess."  She turned
towards Constance, her suddenly uneasy manners clashing with the false
lightness of her words.  "You see, Miss Lloyd, I am known as something
of a wit in the Marlborough House set.  It was I who placed the soap in
the cheese dish last year during the London season.  And it was I who
put the ink bottle over the doorway at the Martin-Smiths' shooting
party."

The duchess's face was set in an expression of bafflement.  She glanced
at her son, who did not return the favor.  Instead he crossed his legs
and yanked his trousers down at the ankles, taking great interest in
something contained in the paper.

"My dear," said Dishy, still focused on the paper.

"Perhaps you had best not tell Miss Lloyd of your varied career as a
social wit."

"Nonsense.  I will explain, Miss Lloyd.  She will find this amusing.  I
did torment Philip, well beyond childhood in fact.  But the wretched
boy would never so much as look at me.  So my antics grew rather
outrageous, to the point where, by the time I came out, I was
considered quite hopeless."

Cavendish cleared his throat and seemed to want to leave very much.
Even the duchess seemed taken aback, attempting to maintain an
expression of amusement, and looking briefly at Constance.

"One time I even--" Cavendish put down the paper.

"Please, Viola.  This is quite enough."

"Well, I must say that I am something of a black sheep in my family.
But now that Dishy and I are engaged, they are all happy."  She
smiled.

"My engagements to Dishy always make them happy."

Constance looked at the duchess, who in turn looked at Dishy, who
shrugged.

"One day, Viola, you will learn the fine art of silence."

"I have no doubt, dear Cavendish, that you are just the man to teach
me."  Viola said it with such a sweet expression, it was almost
impossible to find fault with her on any count.

As the tea continued, Constance could only wonder how on earth these
two people could ever find happiness.  The odds seemed against them
taken alone, as two separate entities.  And together, they seemed
perfectly impossible.

For a long while she sat simply on the bed in her new room, the gold
room, where she had been elevated after the triumph of the Sandringham
invitation.

Darkness fell, and Stella appeared to light the lamps and a small
fire.

"Would you like a lie-down, Miss?"

Constance did not respond at first but finally she shook her head, and
Stella left with a slight bob and a perplexed expression on her round
features.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," she whispered.  The door opened, and the Viscount Cavendish,
her writing desk in one hand, came into her room.

"Sir."  She rose to her feet.

"Please," he began.

"Please.  I just wished to bring this up to you."

"Thank you."  She took the desk and placed it on her bed.  She had
forgotten all about it since tea.

"I do not wish to intrude upon you, Miss Lloyd.  But I do wish to
apologize for this afternoon.  Viola is rather high-spirited, and I
believe she is worried about our impending union."

"I understand that is quite common," she said flatly.

"Yes.  For us it is, at any rate.  We have quite a record when it comes
to engagements.  I will see you at dinner then."

He gave a brief bow, and she nodded once before he began to leave.  He
paused at the threshold.

"You must think this a curious household.  But, in our own way, we just
do the best that we can, all of us.  I do hope this day has not led you
to think we are a peculiar lot."

"Don't worry, sir."  She smiled.

"I can assure you that anything that was said today did nothing to
alter my opinion of you."

He smiled as he went through the door, but the smile faded and he
seemed about to speak again when Constance waved him on.

"I must dress for dinner," she said sweetly.  And he left.

Again she paused for a moment, looking at the closed door.  Then she
opened the lap desk, running her hand against the silken wood, and
reached into the drawer where she had put the note from Joseph.  At
first she thought she was simply mistaken, or looking in the wrong
place.

But soon one thing was painfully obvious.

The note was gone.

Dinner was more pleasant than usual, mainly because Viola's presence at
the table deflected the bulk of the duchess's scrutiny from Constance,
and Viola was a lively addition.  Another difference was that Philip
was there, arriving late after his rally, yet managing to change into a
dinner jacket and polished boots in time for the meat course.

Viscount Cavendish was also markedly changed, not in his attire but in
his attention to Constance.  He was kind, addressing comments to her.

Once Philip was seated, the duchess waited until his plate had been
filled before she spoke.

"Well, as we all know, dear Cavendish and Viola are to be married."

Philip looked down at his plate, giving no indication of any emotion.

"And since Dishy is the heir, and will inherit, it is only right and
just that his marriage should proceed that of his younger brother.  I
believe six months would be appropriate.  After all, the main thing is
that Philip is known to be betrothed.  The election is won.  There is
nothing to be gained by a hasty marriage."

For the first time, Constance had a genuine urge to hug the duchess.

Viola straightened in her chair.

"No, your grace.  You are all kindness, but I do not believe that Dishy
and I should be first.  Philip was engaged before we were, so by rights
they should go first."

Philip put down his knife and fork.

"No."

His mother blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"No, Mother."  Philip straightened.

"What do you mean, 'no'?"  The duchess seemed uncertain as to how to
react.

"I mean, a marriage is for two people to decide, the bride and the
groom.  No one else.  Certainly not the groom's mother."

"Don't be ridiculous, Philip," said his mother.

"In the scheme of things, you must realize that their marriage is of
greater significance than yours.  Dishy is the eldest son.  Had you and
Miss Lloyd been betrothed for any length of time at all, well, I could
see your point.  But as it stands, there are but a few weeks between
the engagements.  And if you count the three times they were engaged
previously, well, they go first."

"Four times," corrected Viola.

"Don't forget the engagement at the Christmas ball."

"Heavens, yes.  I always forget that one."  The duchess smiled again,
finally feeling back in control.

"Or we could have a double wedding."

"No.  I refuse."  Viola looked over at Constance.

"I mean, there is really no rush.  The main thing is for all of us to
get to know each other, is it not?"

"You've lived next door for all of your life," Dishy said.

"How much more could you possibly learn about us?  You already know
more than anyone outside of the immediate family.  Actually, you
probably know more than anyone at all."

"Pardon me, dear Viola."  The duchess took a rather aggressive stab at
her filet.

"I am still the duchess."

"Why, of course you are, your grace."  Viola smiled graciously.

"In my mind, you will always be the duchess."

"Miss Lloyd."  The duchess turned.

"What do you say?"

"Well, I..."

"Why are you always such a bully, Mother?  Dishy and I can handle it.
But why must you be such a bully to Constance?  To Viola as well."
Philip pushed back his plate, which moved his wine glass with such
force the wine sloshed over the side.

"Philip!"  snapped the duchess.

"That is most unkind and unnecessary."

"I disagree, Mother, I fear it is kind compared to what I am thinking,
and necessary considering the situation.  Dishy, why are you opening
yourself to further humiliation?  She has used us all of our lives.
Haven't you had your fill of her game?"

"Stop!"  The duchess slammed her palm against the table.

"You are excused, Philip."

There was complete silence in the dining room.  No one made a move.

"I said, you are excused."

"I thank you, Mother, but I did not ask to be excused."  Philip reached
for the claret and poured himself another generous glass.

The duchess glared at her youngest son.

"Leave this room before I..."

"Before you do what, Mother?  Put me over your knee?  Send me to bed
without pudding?"

"Before I send you from this house!"  The moment the words had escaped
her mouth, her face flushed.

"Then do it, Mother."

"Philip," began Cavendish.

"You stay out of it," Philip shot, pointing his finger at his older
brother.

"I am thirty four years old.  I am now a Member of Parliament.  I am
sick of it, heartily sick."

Constance was suddenly filled with a sense of pride for Philip, like
seeing a younger brother climbing a long-feared tree.  Or when Wade had
enlisted in the army.

"What are you sick of, Philip?"  she coaxed, surprised by her own
voice.  He turned to her, his expression growing softer as he did.

"I am sick of being used.  I am sick of not doing what I wish, of
pleasing others--mostly you, Mother."  He looked briefly at his mother,
then back to Constance, and finally to Viola.

"I will speak plainly.  It was originally Mother's idea that I find a
bride before the elections.  And so, as usual, as I have always done, I
complied with Mother's wishes."

"Philip, this is not the time nor the place to--" Cavendish began.

"On the contrary, this is precisely the time and place."

"There," said the duchess with satisfaction.

"You have said what you wish, Philip, and we are all impressed.  Please
sit up straight, you're slouching again.  Now let us continue the meal
in peace.  I saw in the Court Circular that .. ."

"It was not my original intention," Philip restated.  He hunched over
his place setting.

"I was petulant and resentful, and I apologize to you, Constance,
before everyone here.  I did not treat you as a person, I treated you
as an impediment.  An impediment to what, I don't know, but I behaved
badly.  I should apologize before the world, but this is a start, the
beginning of a life made of truth and not lies."

"Philip," his mother warned, "I requested that you cease this
conversation.  It is most inappropriate."

"So is a grown man performing for no one but his mother," he snapped.

"I'm sorry, but the weekend at Sandringham woke me up, so to speak."

"Why is that?"  Constance was intrigued.  This was the first
conversation of substance she had ever witnessed at Hastings House, and
most certainly the only time she had really caught a glimpse of the
real Philip.  He steepled his hands together, almost as if in prayer.

"I saw what I would become.  And I finally saw what Joseph was,
especially compared to the other men.  I've teased him for his
seriousness for years, and then I saw him with the others, and for the
first time I was ashamed.  He has passion, drive, something to aim for.
The rest of them seem to live for the next shoot, the next meal, the
next season.  I've been the same way, lacking focus, drifting from one
gathering to the next, intoxicated more often than not.  But I believe
I may resolve it.  And the irony is that it took Constance to show it
to me."

"You are talking nonsense, Philip.  You always talk nonsense after a
few days with Smith," sniffed the duchess.

"Yes, we have benefited from his financial insight.  Still, he is not
quite the quality one would wish."

"Mother, he has all but saved this estate, and you know that full well.
The truth is, after much thinking, I realize I do wish to be an MP, the
very best I can possibly be.  This will not be a hobby.  And further,
there is something else I would like to do."

"What?"  His mother leaned back impatiently.

"What could you possibly do, my dear?"

"I believe I could have a real talent."

"In what, for God's sake?"  Cavendish began to rise from his seat, but
sat back down.

"You read English Literature at Oxford, barely passing, I might add.
Since then you have become an amusing companion in the best drawing
rooms in England.  What grand occupation has your training prepared you
for?"

"Yes, Philip.  What great talent are you withholding from the world?"
the duchess asked.  Then she rubbed her temple, her voice calmer,
almost gentle.

"I am sorry, Philip.  But you astonish us all.  Thus far you have shown
neither talent nor interest in anything."

"Whatever it is you enjoy, you may do it when Parliament is not in
session," Dishy pronounced.

"But why must one select one interest?  Joseph has several avocations,
and combines them with great satisfaction.  As far as I know, he has
never been bored or at a loss for something to do.  And look at my
situation--we have spent hundreds of pounds on this election, and I
won.  But I will receive no salary."  He cleared his throat and ran a
thumb along the rim of his wine glass.

"But I earnestly believe that, as a painter, I could earn a respectable
sum."

"A painter!"  Dishy cried.

"My God, Philip, are you insane?"

"A painter?"  His mother looked from face to face in utter confusion.

"As in one who paints the trim on a house?"

Constance and Viola remained silent, and both smiled.

"And what find you so funny, Miss Lloyd?"  barked the duchess when she
saw the expression on Constance's face.

"It all makes sense now," Constance said, looking at Philip.

"I'll wager you were painting all along, even at Eton.  And when Joseph
decided to manufacture something, he used what he had been familiar
with because of you.  He made pigments."

Philip nodded.

"He pilfered my stock time and again for his experiments.  Good God, if
you knew the foul smell of burning paint."

"Well, you may paint when Parliament is not in session," repeated
Dishy, pleased to have made his point.

"Besides, you probably have not done it in years.  Perhaps you had a
middling sort of talent as a student, but as an adult, well.  We all
know how childhood talents are rendered useless in adulthood."

"That's not exactly true, Dishy.  I have been painting steadily for
well over a decade, in London.  I use part of Joseph's London
laboratory as a studio to paint.  It's a horrid little place on the
other side of the Thames, off Waterloo Road.  I believe he remains
there simply to torment me, but it's been splendid, absolutely
splendid."

Cavendish straightened his tie.

"I had no idea, Philip.  No idea whatsoever.  No one did."

"That is not quite true," Philip said.

"I knew," said Viola.

"And so did Joseph, and, of course, the duke."

"Father?"  Dishy cried.

"Who?"  the duchess asked.

"My father, the duke.  The man who lives downstairs with all the
tunneling.  Joseph told him years ago, and it was a good thing, because
I had to have some place to put all the finished canvases."

"How on earth did you get them there without our knowing?"  Dishy
inquired.

"The tunnels, of course."  Philip took a sip of wine.

"There are some entrances to his tunnels way out on the grounds, far
beyond sight of the house.  The servants would never tell, of course.
They are his own personal army.  Whenever I would come for a visit, I
would take the back road and deposit my canvases below, then come round
the front."

"You did all the paintings in your father's corridor?"  Constance
asked.

"Not all of them, but quite a few.  He has a rather annoying taste for
the masters, and I am unable to paint that fast."

"The dog in the tea room?"

Philip laughed.

"Sampson.  Yes, Constance, I did that one."

"It's marvelous, absolutely wonderful!  And Viola.  Of course you
painted Viola."  Constance glanced at Philip, who was staring at Viola.
He looked at her with a peculiar expression, and with a jolt she
recognized it--love.  Philip was in love with Viola.

"We will discuss this matter later," the duchess said, but with less
bluster than she had used before.

Constance's head began to pound as the conversation at the table
continued.  She needed time to think, to sort out all that had
happened.  Finally she stood.

"Please forgive me.  Once again, I am not feeling well."

"Well, that is certainly most understandable, Miss Lloyd.  I am not
feeling well myself."  The duchess gave a meaningful but brief glance
at her youngest son.

Philip also stood.

"May I help you?"

"No, please.  I'm sure I shall feel better in the morning."

"Good night, Miss Lloyd," said Viola.  She suddenly seemed very tired
as well.

There were more good-nights, and at last Constance was able to retire
to her own room.

Joseph.  Where was he?  Was he safe, in some sort of danger?  Perhaps
that was what the missing note had said, information on where he was.
And perhaps he needed her in some way.

And now there was Philip.  Did he even realize he was in love with
Viola?

She felt as if her life was out of control, spinning away faster than
she could possibly hold on.

"Oh, God."  She slumped on the bed.

"Think," she urged herself.

And suddenly, it all became clear.  She could not stay at Hastings
House, not even another day.  She had to leave that very night.

Unwittingly, she had been the cause of chaos in the household.  She
owed it to everyone, especially Philip, to leave.

Where would she go?

To find Joseph.  To help him.  Perhaps he would not want her, but that
mattered little.  There was no choice for Constance--she would find
Joseph.

Stella entered to help her undress, and Constance thought of telling
her, of giving her a note for Philip to explain and apologize.  But
Philip would simply come after her, and the situation would be an even
bigger mess.  No, she could not tell Philip.

The duke?  He would be sympathetic, to be sure.  But she couldn't put
him in such an awkward position.  It would be unfair to unburden
herself, to ease her own conscience at the expense of his.

This was something she had to do by herself.

Once again, Constance Lloyd was completely on her own.

London was the logical place for Constance to begin the search for
Joseph.

Philip had mentioned that Joseph's residence in town was off Waterloo
Road, east of the Thames.  So that is where she would go.  That is
where she would begin.

Then she began to realize the magnitude of the undertaking.

Every step she could foresee was fraught with barriers.  The first, and
by no means the greatest, obstacle was simply getting to London.  She
could not walk, of course, even if she knew the way.  If she could
procure a horse she could ride, but once in London that would
necessitate a stable and food for the animal, as well as food along the
way.  If she could get to the nearest station, she could take the rail
cars.  That would be her best option.

Another crimp in her plans was the very real issue of money.  No matter
how she chose to travel, it could not be done free of charge.  The
safer and more convenient the option, the more money it would cost.
The stark reality was that beyond the estate gates she would need some
form of currency, and she had not so much as a farthing.

Her mind was churning as she paced the room.  Perhaps it was because of
her own overworked emotional state, but she imagined she heard someone
crying, a woman sobbing in some part of the house.  It was a
heartbreaking cry, a sound of utter hopelessness and despair.

She thought of the servants, for the cry seemed to be that of a young
woman, but their quarters were far beyond earshot.  No sound could
possibly reach her from where the housemaids lived.

A thought struck her: The place was haunted.  Perhaps the ghost of a
long-ago woman, forever trapped in the unforgiving walls, had returned
to lend comfort.  Maybe the woeful spirit was warning her to leave now,
before she herself became a miserable soul, with no hope in this world
or the next.

"Nonsense," Constance said aloud to herself.

The wrenching sobs continued, but she ignored them, partially from
common sense.  Partially from the very real fear that she would join
the mysterious woman in a flood of tears.

Opening a drawer, still going over the issue of money, she pulled out
some undergarments to pack, placing them on the bed before realizing
she did not even have a portable bag in which to put her clothes.  The
journey to Sandringham had been made with trunks and valets and
coaches.  The only items she could carry would be the tin bucket from
the duke and her writing desk.

There was a knock on the door.  After only a slight hesitation,
Constance opened it.

It was Viola, in a billowy white night wrapper, holding a candle.  Her
nose was red, eyes moist from crying.

The mystery of the midnight weeping had been solved.  The surprise must
have been evident on Constance's face.

"I do not wish to shock you, Miss Lloyd," she whispered.

"But may I enter and have a talk with you?"

Constance nodded, simply because she had been caught off guard, and no
other option had presented itself in her mind in time to prevent the
woman from intruding.

Without waiting for her hostess to speak, Viola stepped into the room
and closed the door behind her.  Immediately, her gaze shifted to the
bed.

"So, are you planning a journey, Miss Lloyd?"  She placed the candle on
a chest and waited for an answer.

"No, no.  I was just..  ."

Constance's voice trailed off, and Viola sighed.

"Forgive me."  She closed her eyes.

"I seem to have made something of a habit out of being rude.  Something
about this house makes me so disagreeable, I find it hard to tolerate
myself.  Which makes things rather awkward, to say the least."

"May I help you with anything?"  Constance asked, at a loss from both
the nocturnal visit as well as the odd behavior of Cavendish's
fiancee.

"I did not realize you were spending the night here.  I assumed you
would be going to your own home."

"I made an excuse of feeling rather ill myself.  You see, I was hoping
to get the chance to speak to you in private."

"Was that you I heard crying?"

"Good Lord, you could hear?"  She looked about the room.

"This old house carries the noise, doesn't it?  Yes.  I do confess that
was me."

"Are you feeling better?"  She could think of little to say.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"I'm not sure.  You see, well.  This is quite difficult for me.  I've
never come to anyone for help before, not like this."

"But you have the advantage of knowing the topic," Constance attempted
a light tone.

"Please, just say what you wish to say."

"I understand you were a governess."

For a moment Constance just stood, staring at Viola.

"Yes, I'm afraid that is true.  I was a governess for well nigh unto a
decade, so there you have it.  Your curiosity is satisfied."  She began
to pass Viola to open the door for her, hoping the woman would leave
her alone.

"No, you misunderstand."  She tied the belt at her waist in a nervous
gesture, almost fluttery, then untied it again.

"I just want to know about you."

"I will be more than delighted to discuss my history at another time,
but at the moment I--" "Are you in love with him?"  Viola blurted.

"Pardon me?"

With more confidence, she took a step forward.

"I asked you if you are in love with him.  That's all I need to
know."

Constance crossed her arms and glanced towards the bed, where her
clothing sat in silent accusation.  And then she saw her writing desk,
the gift from Joseph.  This had gone on too long, far too long.  She
could no longer pretend.

"Yes," she admitted, closing her eyes for a moment.

"Yes, I am very much in love with him."

"Oh."  Viola's voice was nothing more than a small puff, and her
shoulders slumped forward.

"Then, well.  I am sorry for the intrusion.  And I wish you every
happiness."  She swallowed and reached for the candle.

"May you and Philip be very happy," she said softly.

"Wait."  Constance stepped towards her.

"You inquired if I was in love with Philip?"

Viola nodded, her lower lip straightening as she attempted to smile.

Should she tell her?  Constance watched the other woman.  Again, a
sense of being trapped by falsehoods, although well-intentioned ones,
rose in her throat.  This could not continue.  She would be gone soon,
it no longer mattered.

"I am not in love with Philip."  Viola did not move.

"But you just said you were."

"No.  I meant Joseph."

"Joseph Smith?"

"Shush!  You'll wake the entire house!"  Viola clamped her hand over
her own mouth, her eyes staring straight ahead.  Then she began to
laugh.

"Well, I am glad I could provide you with such amusement," Constance
muttered.

Viola waved her hand, but continued laughing silently, her shoulders
shaking.  With her expression so natural and unguarded, the change in
the appearance was quite astounding.  The guarded stiffness was gone,
and she was again as she was at Sandringham, as she would be forever in
Philip's painting of her--a genuinely pretty young woman free of
artifice.

Constance relaxed, and even smiled a bit in return.  Viola's giggling
was indeed an infectious relief.

Finally Viola took a deep breath and ran a finger under each eye to
wipe away the tears.

"Forgive me," she said at last.

"I seem to be falling apart.  It's just that, well, you see, I am in
love with Philip."  Constance's mouth opened, and Viola grinned.

"I always have been, ever since he threw a rock at me when I was five
years old."

"Well, if that won't inspire love, I don't know what would," Constance
stammered.  She raked her hand through her dark hair.

"You're in love with Philip?"  Viola nodded.

"Desperately so."

"Then why are you engaged to Cavendish?"

"I suppose for the same reason you're engaged to Philip.  No choice,
really.  I have spent years making a complete fool out of myself to get
Philip's attention, but, as you can see, it hasn't worked.  Even that
horrid trick that I played on him when we were children was yet another
attempt to get Philip to notice me.  All it managed to do was instill a
lifelong fear of spiders in the poor man.  All of my pranks were to get
him to notice me.  Even if Philip became angry, well, at least that
would have been something, now, wouldn't it?"

"This is taking me a while to comprehend."

"I know.  It's quite a mess, isn't it?"

"Here, let's sit on the bed."  Constance pushed away her clothing, and
the two women settled on the edge.

"So you are in love with Smith?"

Constance nodded.

"I didn't realize how very much until today."

"Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?"

"No."  She paused before continuing.

"In truth, I I was planning on leaving tonight to try to find him."

"Leaving?  Tonight?  How on earth could you do that?"

"I'm not sure."  The small dimple appeared just below her lip.

"The reality of the situation was just sinking in when you came."

"Do you have any idea where he could be?"

"Not really, although I was going to go to London.  Philip said he has
a laboratory off Waterloo Road, so I thought I would start there."

"I don't know."  Viola bit her lower lip.

"I should doubt very much he would be in London.  No one's seen him for
days, and I would imagine that he would have a beastly time hiding from
anyone in town at the moment."

"I know he was in Scotland recently.  Perhaps I could find him
there."

"Miss Lloyd, Scotland is a big place.  We need more to go on than a man
by the name of Smith and a country.  Do you have any other names he
might be associated with?"

Constance wavered.  She did not know this woman, not really.  Perhaps
it was an attempt by one of Joseph's enemies--whoever they were--to get
material to use against him.  Although she had little enough solid
information to offer, it was a possibility.

"Oh, come on, Miss Lloyd."  Viola wearily rubbed the back of her own
neck.

"I'll be frank--my only hope of forming any sort of relationship with
Philip, other than the unfortunate one you saw this afternoon, is to
get you happily away from here with Joseph Smith.  Don't you see?
Anyone else, and Philip would move heaven and earth to find you.  But
Smith, well.  Smith just happens to be the one man whose happiness
Philip would choose over his own.  But..."

"But what?"

"How does Smith feel about you?  I am living proof that a woman may
very well feel she is the ideal mate for a man, and he may never know
it.  Does Smith in any way return your affection?"

"I, well ..."  She thought of his expression, the way he had looked at
her in the library at Sandringham, when he came to her room to bid her
good-bye.

"I believe he does feel something," she concluded.

"He has indicated a certain fondness for me.  And he sent me that
writing desk."

Both women glanced over at the lap desk, and Viola smiled.

"Well, from Smith, that is the equivalent of a declaration in the
Gazette.  So now what are the names that might connect you with Smith?"
Again she hesitated.

"Please," Viola urged.

"I will be perfectly honest, Miss Lloyd.  I am forced to marry
Cavendish because my parents have lost much of their wealth.  Unlike
the Ballsbridge estate, our estate was small, and held to land which
has become all but useless.  My younger brother will inherit all, and
my parents have given me the choice of accepting Cavendish, or becoming
a governess myself."

"You would become a governess?"

"I have little alternative.  I will turn thirty in less than a month.
The estate cannot support us much longer.  I have very little
choice."

There was absolutely no doubt in Constance's mind that Viola was being
honest.  It was a humiliating thing to admit for anyone, but at least
when Constance had been forced into the position, she had not had to do
so in front of all the people she grew up with in Richmond.  At least
she had not had an audience for her social ruin.

"And at this point," Viola continued, "I believe I would rather be
employed as a governess than endure a loveless marriage."

That was it.  That was the very crux of the matter, the very heart of
why Constance could not possibly continue at Hastings House.

"Can you imagine," Viola whispered, "what it would be like in five
years' time?  Now I can pretend politeness to Cavendish, all the while
thinking of Philip, comparing their gestures and smiles and the way
they sit a horse.  But if I marry Cavendish, well.  I believe I will
lose my mind.  By then it wouldn't matter, I suppose, because I would
have already bartered my soul."

"Crimmins and Walker," Constance announced.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't know their Christian names, but two gentlemen of Joseph's
acquaintance escorted me to Hastings House after we were waylaid by
highwaymen."

"Oh, yes!  Cavendish told me about it!  Jolly good, Miss Lloyd.  Jolly
good indeed."  Then she sobered.

"Crimmins and Walker.  Well, that is something.  Any other name?"

"Miss Rathbottom?"

"Please, call me Viola."

"Viola.  I must be honest with you.  I've seen the way Philip looks at
you, at Sandringham as well as here.  And I would bet just about
anything that he is at least as much in love with you as you are with
him."

"You are joking," said Viola, her eyes indicating that she very much
wanted to believe that Constance was sincere.

"I do not joke about such things."  Viola took a deep breath.

"Dear God, I hope you're right."

"Brown."

"Brown?"

"Yes.  I just remembered the other name connected with Joseph. Crimmins
and Walker seem to have some association with a Brown, John Brown, I
believe.  One of them slipped the name in the coach."

"John Brown.  That's not really .. ."  Suddenly Viola stopped.

"John Brown?  Is this John Brown the connection to Scotland?"

"I believe so.  And the coachman mentioned a large man in a kilt
speaking to Joseph before he collected me for the journey here."

Viola's eyes grew very wide.

"And where again did he collect you from?"

"Cowes.  On the Isle of Wight.  What is it?"

"Cowes.  And was the Queen by any chance at Osborne House at the
time?"

"Why, yes, as a matter of fact, she was.  Viola, what's wrong?"

"I believe I can tell you where Smith is."

"Where?  Please don't keep it from me."

"I saw the Court Circular."  Her voice was hollow with astonishment.

"The Queen is going for her holiday at Balmoral in Scotland."

"What on earth does the Queen have to do with this?"

"My dear Miss Lloyd, John Brown is her private manservant.  Whatever
Smith is engaged in, it has something to do with the Queen of England
herself."

"Queen Victoria?"  She could barely get the words out.

"That John Brown?  The man from all of the pamphlets, from the cartoons
in Punch?"

"Queen Victoria," Viola confirmed.

"The Queen, and John Brown."

Somehow, their own problems seemed very small indeed.

It wasn't until Constance was on the train to Scotland on the London
and Northwestern line, and then on the twenty-mile coach ride from the
station to Balmoral, that she actually had time to think.  And her
thoughts centered on the sheer impulsiveness of her journey, as well as
the improbability of it succeeding.  She wondered when she would be
missed, if those at Hastings House would be relieved or alarmed.
Probably a little of both, she concluded.

With Viola's help, she had penned a note to Philip, just a few lines.
Using her newly restored writing desk and the fresh paper and ink, she
thanked him for everything.  But she did not love him, and he deserved
something more.  Indeed, she concluded, she felt certain he was not in
love with her--and one day soon, she knew he would find joy with the
woman he loved, the woman who would love him forever in return.

That last bit had been Viola's addition, and in hindsight Constance
winced at the melodrama.  But it was too late to be changed.

On the train she thought of the old duke, and hoped her sudden
departure would not cause him worry.  She knew the duchess would be too
busy counting the silverware and examining the jewel boxes for missing
items to concern herself overly much with the missing fiancee.  She had
placed the engagement ring in the center of her dresser, so the duchess
should be pleased.

Above all, she thought of Joseph.

It had, indeed, been a most extraordinary twenty-four hours.

Everything had happened with astounding haste.  It seemed as if, from
the moment Viola had appeared at Constance's door, the world had tilted
upon its side.

After they had figured out the probable identity of John Brown, the
plan unfolded quickly.  Viola slipped back to her own home and managed
to procure almost fifty pounds from various hiding places in the house,
including her mother's secret money pouch hidden behind a marble bust
of Queen Anne, and returned through the Hastings House side entrance
with traveling clothes, a small portmanteau, and a train schedule.

"Viola," Constance said.  They had been addressing each other by their
first names for well over twenty minutes by then.

"I honestly don't know how to thank you."

"Please," Viola replied, examining the train schedule.  Finally she
looked directly at Constance.

"The faster I get you out of here, the better chance I have at marrying
the right brother."

The smile faded from Constance's face.

"What am I doing?"

"You're going off to find the man you love."

"This is madness."

"No, it isn't."  Viola grabbed her wrist.

"Madness is me marrying Cavendish.  Madness is you marrying Philip."

"There is no guarantee that Joseph even wants me, none at all."

"Perhaps.  Just as there's no guarantee that Philip will want me."

"And there is absolutely no guarantee that he is at Balmoral, for
heaven's sake.  If the London reporters can't find him, how can I be
expected to?"

"For one thing, my dear Constance, unlike the London reporters, no
matter how audacious they may be, you have a more urgent need to find
Joseph Smith than they do.  You are on a quest for love, which is far
more potent than any reporter's assignment.  And you are right--we
don't know how Smith will respond when you do see him.  There is no
guarantee on any of that.  But I'll promise you this--one thing I can
guarantee is that you will be miserable if you don't go after him."

That was true.  Everything she said was true.  But was this the right
way to secure a chance at happiness?

"I am not certain if this is the right course," Constance admitted.  It
was such an unexpected relief to have someone to confide in, someone
with whom to unburden herself.  She had not had such a friend since
Mrs.  Whitestone.

No.  She had not had such a friend since Joseph.

"What other course is there?  For God's sake, Constance, we are both of
us running out of time.  Do you realize that if we do not do something
now, we will forever pay the price in misery?  And it would be nothing
more than what we deserve, exactly what we would deserve if we don't at
least try."

"I'm not sure .. ."

"Perhaps you are not sure, but I am."  Viola lowered her voice.

"I will make up some story, anything.  I'll say I took you to
Rathbottom Grange."

"Rathbottom Grange?"

Viola grinned.

"Dreadful, isn't it?  That's the name of my home.  Now you know why I
wish to marry Philip--so I will no longer bear the name Rath-bottom."
Again she became all business.

"No matter.  I will write a note to say that we left early this morning
for Rathbottom Grange.  By that time he will have received your note,
the one releasing him.  I know Philip--he will wait some time before he
comes after you.  He'll wish to think, to figure out what to do.  That
will keep all of them at bay, and when Philip comes round to see
you--and I have no doubt he will once he draws up a battle plan--I can
do my best to entertain him."

"What on earth will I say to him?  I mean, when I do see him."

"By 'him' I assume you mean Smith."

Constance nodded.  Her head had begun to pound fiercely.  This was all
so very improbable.

"Let's just get you to Scotland first, Constance."

"I mean, how shall I explain my sudden appearance?

"Hello, Mr.  Smith.  It is so lovely to see you.  I just happened to be
skulking about the royal residences of Great Britain, and what a
coincidence that you happen to be here, sir."  Can you imagine?"

"Well, you will have hours on a wobbly train to come up with something
glittering and brilliant.  But I: we do not get you to the station
soon, it will meat nothing."

"How will you explain your absence, Viola?"

"From where?  At home they think I am here, here they will think I
have gone home.  I will bribe one of my father's stable boys to drive
us, and I'll be back before anything is counted amiss."

"I just have a terrible feeling about this."

"As terrible as being married to Philip, and spending your life with
the duchess?"

"Not that terrible."

"Good.  Then let's go," Viola said, snapping open the portmanteau,
which flooded the room with a musty scent.

"Now, to the important decision: the blue bonnet or the green?"

It never ceased to amaze Constance that the royal family of Great
Britain, arguably the most powerful empire on earth, could choose to
live in homes that could only be considered as alternately rather
bizarre or homely.

Her first glimpse of Balmoral was similar to her first glimpse of
Osborne House, which in turn was remarkably similar to her first
impression of Sandringham.  They were all solid places.  Sturdy.  There
was very little attempt at beauty, as if beauty would diminish the
sense of sensible, sober values the Queen wished so very much to
display.

From what Constance had heard, Queen Victoria's taste had once been
quite frivolous and light, an airy preference for all things lovely and
impractical.  Then she married Albert, who brought with him German
values and a complete disdain for anything that was not practical or
efficient.  Since his death, Queen Victoria seemed to out-Albert even
Albert in her mania for what would have appealed to him, what would
have caused the Prince Consort to nod with approval.

Balmoral was just such a place.  Albert himself had designed the house,
yet another of the mixture of styles the family seemed to find so
terribly endearing.  Within its walls could be found virtually every
architectural characteristic known to man, and a few that had eluded
discovery thus far.  If the roof was peaked and Gothic, the doorways
were Georgian, and the drawing room, from all accounts, seemed to have
sprung straight from a clerk's parlor in Wimbledon.  The design was not
the only troubling aspect to Balmoral.  It had earned such a reputation
of outdoor pleasures, from hiking and riding to hunting and dining
constantly al fresco, that it had become known as something of a
Highland health spa.  Others felt the mood was similar to Marie
Antoinette attempting to play the part of a peasant shepherdess at
Petit Trianon, with Queen Victoria becoming a Scottish country matron.
Visitors were urged to attend the local church and hear the word of God
elbow to elbow with the good, simple people.  Cows were trotted out for
the peers of the realm to marvel at the process of milking.  There were
copies of the works of Robert Burns or Sir Walter Scott to be read
aloud, always by a roaring fire and always with great passion.  Guests
were persuaded to dress in tartans, the men--no matter how spindly
their knees or low-hanging their bellies, dressed in kilts.  The women
wore their garish plaids with their newest Paris bonnets.  And everyone
was expected to leave Balmoral feeling purged and refreshed.

Most, however, left with pains in their joints, for the queen did not
believe in leaving fires to burn all day long, and utterly exhausted
with the tedium of the queen's court.  More than one guest nicknamed
the retreat "Balmorality."  The Prince of Wales hated Balmoral.  Not
only did the castle represent all that he found tiresome, but the one
man he hated most in all of England, in all of the world for that
matter, considered Balmoral his private domain.

That man was John Brown.

The very man she was there to see, to find out where Joseph was.

The carriage let her out just at the base of the Balmoral path.  It
wasn't an unusual request.  The coachman assumed Constance was perhaps
another lady to visit, or an elevated lady-in-waiting to the queen. She
paid the man and he drove off, only slightly perplexed by her desire to
walk the rest of the way instead of being driven.

She took a deep breath and clutched her bags, a small reticule and the
portmanteau borrowed from Viola.  She had packed the duke's bucket,
this time with no comforting tea cakes, for good luck.

And as she walked up the rugged path, it did occur to her that if at
any time in her life she needed a bit of good luck, it was, most
certainly, now.

Now that she was within sight of Balmoral, after trudging the rocky,
windy path and fending off insects the size of small mammals, she was
not sure what she should do next.  In reality, she had never really
anticipated getting this far without being stopped by some burly guards
or hidden agents of the queen.  As far as she could tell, there was
little or no security on the grounds.  There were caretakers, men
walking about with rakes who would tip their caps, women with buckets
or baskets who would smile with broad, red faces and scurry on.  But
unlike Osborne House, there were no soldiers posted.  Balmoral looked
just like a large, well-tended private home rather than the current
residence of the most powerful monarch in Europe.

She began walking towards what seemed to be the main entrance, all the
while waiting for someone to jump from the shrubbery to halt her, to
grab her by the waist and wrestle her to the ground.

No one did.  Her path was unimpeded, and one of the men with a rake
even pushed aside a pile of trimmings for her to pass with less
trouble.  With only a slight hesitation, she marched up to the house.

And then she was grabbed.

Instead of protesting, or being frightened, she was almost relieved.

"Who are ye, woman?"  a man's voice growled next to her ear.

"I am here to see Mr.  Brown," she replied as calmly as possible,
realizing that her feet were no longer touching the ground, and she had
an overwhelming sensation of being clutched by a large, tipsy sheep.
She felt enveloped by the scent of damp wool and whisky.

"And what be yer name, woman?"  The hold seemed to lessen on her, and
she was again able to draw a full breath.

"I am Miss Constance Lloyd.  Actually, I am here to see Mr.  Joseph
Smith, if you happen to know where he is."

"Shut up."

"I beg your pardon!"  She turned to face the voice, but he would not
allow her the freedom to move.

"Sir, you are not behaving as a gentleman should."

"I never claimed to be a gentleman, woman," he barked.

"And you are trespassing on the property of the Queen of England."

"I know that," she hissed with as much force as his hold on her would
allow.

"I am not a complete idiot."

"The evidence thus far points that way, woman.  Now if I let you down,
will you behave?"

"Of course I will.  Why, I never."

"What is that accent?"

"I was wondering that myself, sir.  You seem to have a very broad
Scotch accent."

"You know nothing, woman."  He dropped her to her feet, and finally she
saw her abductor.  He was enormous.  Not in height, for he was actually
no taller than Joseph or Philip.  It was his build that lent him an
overall impression of hugeness.

His face, when her eyes finally reached it, was quite attractive, the
features strong and regular, the skin tanned and just beginning to
weather like worn leather.  He wore a peaked cap with an emblem pinned
to the left side, and a beautifully tailored blue jacket and bright
white shirt.  But it was his kilt, with a sporran covered with so much
shaggy fur she expected it to bark, and heavy wool socks that caught
her eye, mainly because of the circumference of his legs.

They were massive.  She had seen oak trees with less sturdy trunks.
Never before had she seen legs of such obvious strength, including on
beasts in the zoo and the occasional elephant foot umbrella stand.  The
man's legs were human, but just barely.

"I'm speaking to ye, woman."  He crossed his arms.  Perhaps because of
the well-cut clothing above she had not realized that his arms were
every bit as broad as his legs.

"I believe, sir, you are the largest man I have ever seen."

For the first time he smiled, and Constance realized, with something of
a jolt, that the Highland giant was as handsome as he was large.

"Why, thank ye.  But I am a Scot, not Scotch."

"Excuse me?"

"Ye said I had a Scotch accent.  Maybe I do, but Scotch is whisky.  A
person such as myself is a Scot, woman."

"I do beg your pardon."

"And where were you a lass?"

"Where was I a lass?  Oh, in Virginia, sir."

"Then you are indeed Miss Lloyd."  He bowed.

"John Brown at your service, woman."

"You are John Brown?"

"And what were ye expecting--a mountain goat?"

"Forgive me."  She extended her hand.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"And you, woman.  Smith has told me about you."

"Is he here?  That's why I came."

Brown stepped back and gave her a painfully obvious head-to-toe
appraisal.  Slowly he raised one of his hands to his face and stroked
his whiskers, rich brown just beginning to turn gray, his eyes
narrowing.

"He told you nothing, did he?"

"Mr.  Smith?"  she asked.

Brown nodded.

"No, Mr.  Brown.  Unfortunately, he told me nothing.  So when those
rumors began circulating about him, that perhaps he was in some sort of
trouble, well, I decided to try to find him.  I thought I could be a
help.  Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what, woman?"

"You're looking at me as if I might be a threat to national
security."

"That is exactly what I was thinking meself."  He continued to toy with
his whiskers.

"You are betrothed to another man, are you not?"

"Well, actually .. ."

"And before that you were a governess, were you not?"

"Well, yes, but--" "So your man allowed you to leave by yourself and
trot about the Highlands on a fool's errand to find another gent?"

"No!  No, it's not like that at all!"  Then she clasped her hands.

"He doesn't know where I am."

"Yer man?"

"I do not have a man, Mr.  Brown.  I do not have a man any more than
you have a woman."

She knew the moment she made that comment that she had made a mistake.
A glint sparkled in his eye, and a slow smile spread across his
mouth.

"That is not what I meant, Mr.  Brown, and you know that very well."
Drawing a deep breath, she looked away towards the mountains.  For a
moment she just watched them, the low clouds that floated around the
tops, the lush green and the brilliant purple and yellow of the autumn
flowers.

"My God, it's magnificent here."

"So it is."

She turned back to him, and the smile was gone now.

"Sir, please.  Do you have any idea of where I may find Mr.  Smith?"

"Nay."

"Nay?"

"That's what I said, woman.  Nay."

"So I've come all this way for nothing?"

He shrugged.

"Not necessarily.  Would you be wanting a pot of tea and a scone?"

She smiled.

"Thank you, Mr.  Brown.  That would be lovely.  But may I ask you
something first?"

"You may ask me anything ye wish, that's for certain.  I may not
answer, but you may ask me anything ye wish."

"What is Mr.  Smith up to?  And is he in any sort of danger?"

"I won't tell you his business.  I have no right, none at all.  But
you'd be daft to think he's not in danger.  Daft indeed."

She closed her eyes for a moment.

"Thank you."

"Tea, is it?"

"Tea it is," she agreed, and he offered his arm as he scooped up all of
her luggage with the other.

Tea was in the servants' quarters.  After being among the upstairs folk
at Hastings House and Sandringham, it was a great relief to be below,
with people who judged her as she was.  Unfortunately, they judged her
as an unstable woman from the American South who had journeyed across
Great Britain to find a man who had vanished, and who was not in any
way her intended husband.  Still, considering the bare facts that Brown
presented, they were most obliging indeed.

She was unable to make much sense of the pecking order of the servants,
other than with Mr.  Brown, who seemed to command a lairdlike reverence
from the other staff.  He brought her into the kitchen, then went to a
separate corner of the room where he began preparing a tray with all of
the somber ceremony of a High Church Eucharist.

"Tea for the queen," whispered an older woman wearing a lace mop cap
with quaint lappets.

It wasn't until Brown left that conversation flowed freely amongst the
servants.  She loved hearing their gentle chat, the beautiful lilt of
their words, the warmth that was so obvious amongst the Highlanders.  A
few words were directed towards her, and she noticed when they did,
they inevitably spoke slower and louder.

Even on the cold stone floor, the kitchen sitting area radiated
comfort.

"So, is it Smith you're looking for?"

It was the old woman in the mop cap.  Constance nodded, and the woman
looked back at her teacup.

"He's a good man, Smith is."

"Yes, he is," she ventured.

"Has he been here lately?"

The woman was about to answer, but there was a sharp tongue-clicking
from one of the undergardeners.

"I can't recall," the woman said with such little conviction that
everyone in the room knew she remembered precisely when she had last
seen Smith, what he had been wearing, and the weather that day.

"Oh.  I see."  Constance carefully crumbled a bit of scone.

"Why would ye be wanting to find him anyway?"  a young housemaid asked.
She did not seem more than seventeen years old.

"Brown says yer betrothed to the son of a great duke."

All Constance could do was shake her head, wondering herself what had
possessed her to run away to Scotland.  Suddenly the idea was
hopelessly absurd, comical, really.  Constance Lloyd, former governess,
had narrowly escaped the luxury of Hastings House, where a man who
loved her--or at least believed he did--wished to bestow upon her his
riches and his name, to hide below stairs at Queen Victoria's retreat
and hope against hope to win the love of the Welsh dye-maker, Joseph
Smith.  Narrow escape indeed.

Her shoulders began to quake with laughter, and the servants glanced at
each other uneasily.  They had seen more than their share of peculiar
behavior since the arrival of the Queen more than fifteen years before.
They and all their royal lot were an odd bunch, to be sure.

"Are you all right, Miss Lloyd?"  The lack of sleep and simple worry
about Joseph had worn her down.  She was in a strange land, looking for
a man who may not want to be found.  The laughter suddenly dissolved
into tears.  It was hopeless, utterly hopeless.

"Miss?  Would you like a drop of whisky to ease you?"

That struck her as singularly funny, that in her moment of despair, she
should drink whisky.  Images flooded back to her: memories of the war,
and old Mrs.  Witherspoon's son, who sold everything the family had of
value for Yankee whisky.  Perhaps he had something there, good old
Purvis Witherspoon.  The thought again made her laugh, but she was not
really laughing but crying.

And then she could not stop.  Everything she had so carefully stored
away for years came into the open, from the stench of death in her
front yard, to the openmouthed shock of the Yankee's face when she shot
him in the neck, the seasickness on the ship to England, the fear and
absolute terror she would fight to squelch at night so she would not
lose her mind.

None of it mattered now.

Everyone seemed to be shuffling about the kitchen with great purpose,
her vision smeared with tears.  Someone handed her a linen
handkerchief, and soon another when the first one became so damp with
tears.  They were all talking loudly now, over her head, no longer
attempting to disguise their conversation about her.  But she didn't
care, and couldn't make sense of their words even if she tried with all
of her might.

"There, there, Missy."  Someone patted her hand.

"The thing is," she said, her voice broken, as if she had been in the
middle of the most normal discussion in the world, "the dreadful thing
is that I love him, and I don't know where he is, or if he's well or
hurt or sick or needs me.  If only I knew.  If someone would tell me,
you see, I would just go away."

A strange silence descended over the kitchen, but Constance did not
notice.  Instead she pulled at the soggy handkerchief and continued
talking, almost to herself.

"I haven't seen him since Sandringham, and I don't know how I can
continue without knowing ..."

Then someone's hands were on her shoulders.

"My dearest, dearest girl."

She straightened, and then realized the servants had left.

"I had no idea, none at all that your feelings for Hastings were so
very deep."  The voice was masculine and familiar.

And when her vision cleared, she was looking directly into the eyes of
the Prince of Wales.

"Your Majesty."  Constance rose to her feet and dipped into a curtsy.

"My dear, when there are no others about it is perfectly fine for you
to address me as 'sir."" He was wearing his deer-stalking tweeds and
smelled of roast beef.

"Please forgive me," she stammered.

"No, I will not!  For had I not come in this way, through the kitchen,
instead of the long way, I would never have known how you feel about
Hastings.  My feet were wet, you see."  With his mouth he made a
peculiar motion, as if removing something from his teeth with his
tongue.  The great waxed mustache rotated in exaggerated, synchronized
motion with the mouth.

"So why, then, are you here?"

"I... well..  ."

"Foolish, impulsive, romantic girl!  I understand completely--you wish
to make the young buck follow you."  He clapped his hands, as if
applauding a happy moment in a play.

"Shall we let him know where you are, or let him stew?  This is a
delightful diversion.  Absolutely delightful."

The prince was exceedingly pleased, and bounced on the balls of his
feet as he spoke.

The misunderstanding had gone too far already.

"Your Majesty, I did not realize you would be here.  I heard you were
in town."

"Yes, I was.  I was in town until yesterday morning.  But I came here
to ... well.  I did have some business to conduct, and I needed to ..
."

"Miss Lloyd."  The voice was unmistakable.  John Brown stood in the
doorway, or more accurately, cast his shadow over the doorway to the
kitchen.

"Your Majesty."  He nodded very slightly to the prince.

The prince simply glared.

"I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but Miss Lloyd is weary from her
journey.  Mrs.  Robinson has been kind enough to ready a room for
her."

"Not in the servants' quarters."  The prince stiffened.

"Yes, Your Majesty."  Brown had the ability to address the future king
in a manner that would suggest very different words indeed.

"She will be more than comfortable in the fine little room."

"This is outrageous, Brown."  The prince's voice was even, the anger
kept just barely under control.

"She is to be moved upstairs immediately.  She is my guest, not a
resident of the servants' hall."

"If I may, Your Highness."  Brown glanced down at his fingernails,
buffing them lightly on his kilt.

"Miss Lloyd is a single lady; at the present time she is not married,
however well-bred and delightful she may be.  Further, she has yet to
be presented to the queen at court.  Therefore, she cannot possibly be
an official guest at this royal palace."

The prince made a sort of gurgling sound, but no actual words were
produced.

Brown continued in his calm, even manner.

"You must see that, at this point in time, especially with your dear
wife the princess yet in town, Miss Lloyd, as an unexpected guest, will
remain where she is."

The prince's face turned an astonishing shade of red, and again he made
an odd sputtering noise.  Without looking at Constance, he kicked a
small wicker stool, wincing at the unexpected pain when the stool
tumbled against his shin, and then marched out of the kitchen.  His
shoulders were very straight, and from the rear the only indication of
his displeasure was the distinct set of his cap, which he had shoved
over his ears.

After he had exited, she turned towards the Highlander.

"Thank you, Mr.  Brown."

He smiled, an expression of both warmth and sympathy.  The smile
vanished almost immediately, and if she had not seen his teeth so
clearly, she would have thought she had imagined the smile.

"You must forgive the queen's eldest son."  Brown did not attempt to
conceal his disapproval.

"His manners are not yet as polished as one would hope.  It is a
situation we are at present attempting to redress."

The other servants began to come back into the kitchen one by one, none
of them speaking, but all, at their own rate, glancing at Constance,
offering small nods of reassurance and understanding.

She felt a perfect and utter fool, but accepted the kindness of the
servants.  Even below she was on display, not quite fitting in, just as
she had always been.

When had she last felt at ease, completely herself with no critical
glances or judgmental silences?

With Joseph.  Even at Sandringham, she had felt untroubled and
comfortable when he was nearby.  Even spending the night in a roofless,
damp inn, she had felt safe with Joseph, free to say what was on her
mind, free to allow her emotions to surface.

The question was, now that she knew what it was to be with him, how
could she ever survive without him?

The room Mrs.  Robinson had prepared was tidy and clean, and far more
comfortable than any of the grand places she had slept in recently.

There was nothing but a small bed covered with a colorfully stitched
quilt, a single ladder-back chair, and a washstand in the room.  The
small fireplace held a cheerfully burning flame, and the window was
covered with a starched white curtain.

It was more than perfect.

There wasn't even a chest of drawers or a closet.  Instead, a pegboard
painted moss green served to hang garments.

The sun was just going down when she sat on the bed, intending to
simply think.  There was no point in staying at Balmoral.  Perhaps she
could ask Mr.  Brown some more questions to determine where Joseph
could be.

Drowsiness crept through her limbs, and she placed her head on the
pillow, just to think further.  The pillow held a fragrance of pine and
fresh air and glacial streams, a scent of the outdoors.  Even from her
small window in the servants' quarters, the beauty of the land filled
the room.  A mountain nearby seemed to be an almost unnaturally intense
shade of green, with gray rocks and clumps of earth dotting the side
and mist gathering at the peaks.

Every corner was filled with a clean, bracing perfume, as if the pure
breeze enveloped everything in its path.  She closed her eyes, again to
make her thoughts clearer.

And then she was asleep, dreaming of a waltz.  She was being swirled
and held, a face indistinct above hers, lost in a blur as the music
became faster and faster.  She wore a golden-colored silk dress with
large hoops and a low-cut neckline.  It was of a style that had been
out of fashion for a decade or more.  Her mother had worn such a gown
when Constance was a child, and she recalled the feel of the silk, the
way the gaslight reflected off the material, the bone crinoline and the
swish of petticoats, the scent of lavender.

At her throat, in her dream, she wore a cluster of bay leaves, a custom
she had abandoned in the past few weeks.  The point of one of the
leaves scratched and nudged her neck, making her uncomfortable.

The dance continued, and her partner pulled her to keep up with the
band, her arms aching at the joints as she tried to protest, but no
words came from her mouth.  The music grew louder and faster, and then
she was falling, falling, the skirt gathering the wind as she came
closer to the ground.  She was alone now, but still the music
continued, building and rolling as her legs were swinging in the air.

The ground was no longer a polished dance floor, but a field of sharp,
broken rocks.  There were already bodies on the rocks, twisted and
bloodied, some men dressed in uniforms, some women in ball gowns.  Then
a hand was over her mouth.  She struggled against the hand, and
realized it was a man.  Her partner?  No, this was something different
.. .

This was no longer a dream.  Again, she tried to cry out, but this time
her voice was stifled by the hand.  Her heart was pounding with such
force she could not hear his words, could not distinguish the voice in
the night.

The fire had long since sputtered out, leaving the room in complete
darkness.

"Constance, stop .. ."

He pulled her closer, and with all of her strength, with every fiber of
her being, she kicked out her leg.  Her knee slammed into his abdomen,
and his hold on her finally loosened.  She was about to scream out for
help when she heard his voice clearly.

"Christ almighty," he moaned.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

She stopped, his breathing ragged, and reached up to touch his hair. It
was soft and thick in the darkness.  Her hand traveled down to his
cheek, clean shaven .. .

"Joseph?"

"Aye," he groaned.

"So now you know the name of your victim."  He coughed, and she could
hear him roll onto his side.

"Joseph!  It's you!"

"Stay away!  For mercy's sake, stay away .. ."

"No, I didn't mean to hurt you.  Oh, Joseph, I've been looking for you,
that's why I came up here."  He emitted a strange moan, and she tried
to pat his shoulder, but instead patted the side of his face.

"Ouch," he said.

"I'm so sorry.  I was having a bad dream."

"I gathered."  His breathing was more even now.

"My God, Constance, you have quite a kick to those legs."

"Where have you been?"  Her hand remained on the side of his face, and
she could feel the smoothness of his skin, the warmth.

"Just now I was in indescribable pain."

"How did you know where I was?"

"Brown showed me to your room.  Christ.  I believe you've rearranged
some inner organs."

"Sorry.  So you were here the whole time.  I wonder why Brown didn't
tell me earlier?"

"I just arrived.  Interesting."

"What is interesting?"

"You seem to have located a muscle I did not realize I had."

"Sorry.  But then, where were you?"

"I was working at my lab in London.  Which leads me to ask--what on
earth are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you, Joseph.  I was worried."

"You did not have to worry.  Did Philip send you?"

"No."

"Does he know where you are?"

"He probably does, at least by now.  I left him a note."

"Excellent.  Then we'll return you right away to Hastings House.  I'm
sure .. ."

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not going back there."

"Now, Constance, I know the duchess is overbearing, but in time I feel
confident that you will manage."

"Is that what you think this is about?"

"I... Constance.  No.  Tell me."

"I am no longer engaged to Philip."

He drew in a long breath, and she continued.

"It was all wrong, Joseph.  For so many reasons, the main one being
that I do not love him, nor does he love me.  He's in love with
Viola."

"Viola?  You're mad, Constance.  Viola Rathbottom has been the bane of
his existence ever since I can recall.  If you had any idea of the
stunts she has pulled--" "I do have an idea.  She told me, confessed
everything the night before I came here.  It was all to get Philip's
attention."

"It worked.  He hates her."

"No, he doesn't.  He loves her, but he's been so busy responding to her
ink pots on people's heads and slivers of soap on the cheese dish that
he hasn't had the chance to realize it himself."

"What about Dishy?"

"The only reason she agreed to marry him was to avoid becoming a
governess.  That is why she has not been able to marry him before.  She
had always hoped that Philip would claim her instead."

"I need to let this sink in.  This is extraordinary, absolutely
extraordinary."

"Think about the way they look at each other.  Have you ever seen it?
At Sandringham it was all they could do to keep their eyes off each
other."

"I had assumed he was just wondering if he had to duck from her."
Idly, he stroked her hand.

"I just realized something, Constance.  He's been sketching her for
years.  The laboratory we share is filled with drawings and paintings
of her.  I just assumed it was because her face was so familiar to him.
Bloody hell, I believe you're right!  I'll be damned.  Viola and
Philip."

He shook his head, and after a while began to chuckle.

"Really, Constance, if you had seen her as a child, all arms and legs,
but she always wore a big floppy ribbon in her hair.  We called it her
disguise.

Others thought she was a girl, but the two of us knew better--she was a
French agent, intent on killing us all.  She had a slingshot and the
sharpest collection of rocks you've ever seen.  Tried to hit Philip
once, but she got my cheek instead."

"Is that what that scar is from?"  She smiled, reaching up to touch the
side of his face.

"I always imagined it was from a duel."

"It seems it was, in a fashion.  She was fighting for him.  How very
extraordinary.  She was fighting all along, and we never realized it."
She ran a hand through her hair, which had come unpinned during her
sleep and the struggle with Joseph.

"Did you have a pleasant journey?"  His voice had a peculiar quality,
his breath caressed her neck.  What a peculiar question, she mused.

"Yes.  Yes, I did, thank you."  It was hard to remember what his
question had been.

In the darkness she reached up and again touched his face, slowly at
first, then, as she realized they were closer than she had expected,
she explored the softness of his features.  Once her finger ran down
his cheek, she paused, and as she stroked his mouth, his hand grasped
hers.

"Constance," he whispered.

"Joseph."  She bit her lip, as if to withdraw her voice, and everything
she was feeling.

And then his lips were upon hers.

It was lost then, the world as she knew it thus far.  His hands cupped
her face, reverently and with a gentleness she had never experienced.

"Joseph," she began again, but her utterance was silenced.

She was so very aware of his body, of the heaviness as he weighed down
upon her, of every intake of his breath.  The closeness was miraculous,
the intimacy astonishing.  Yet so comfortable, so relaxed.

He began to speak, and suddenly she wanted to hear nothing of his
voice, honeyed as it was to her ears.  All she wanted was to experience
him, to feel him, to be with him.

Everything about him was perfect, his scent, the scent she had only
garnered in fleeting glimpses before, now she could savor and inhale
and glory in his fragrance.  Her hands grasped his arms, and she was
surprised for a moment at the roll of muscles there, at the rush of
emotions that were released upon that touch.

Her gown.  He unbound it with a facility she would not dwell upon, and
then she felt his hands upon her flesh.  Instead of being frightened or
embarrassed, she was relieved.  Now she could feel him, now she could
feel his hands upon her skin.

She grasped his earlobe within her teeth.

The rest was a whirl.  Of hands, and breath, and the feel of precious
skin.  In a world beyond all else, he was there.  Her breasts were
touched with such delicate care, she felt herself grow weak.

"Constance," he breathed.  And then she was lost, in his touch, in his
scent, in his feel.

In him.

And then she was lost.

They were still in the darkness, his features yet masked in the
night.

He smoothed her hair, pressing a lock against his lips before
speaking.

"We should not have done that.  I should not have done that.  We should
have waited."

"I wanted you," she breathed.

"More than anything, no matter what happens, I wanted us to."  She
planted a kiss against his chest.

"May I ask you a serious question?"

"You are trying to change the subject."

"Will you promise to answer me truthfully?"

After a long sigh, he spoke.

"As truthfully as possible," he hedged.

"Joseph, is what they're saying true?  That you are trying to poison
the royal family?"

He was silent for a moment before he spoke.

"To tell you the truth, I don't have to."

"Oh, my God, what do you mean?"

"You've tasted the food at Sandringham.  The French cook is already
intent on completing the job."

"I am serious, Joseph.  Those vials you had, your knowledge of
chemistry.  I've heard you speak on republican topics with great
passion."

"You've also seen some of the more notorious London gazettes, have you
not?"

"A few," she began.

"I believe I will sue the one that ran the picture of the murdering
physician and implied it was me.  I'm far, far better-looking than that
fellow.  And I don't have a beard."

"Joseph, please stop joking.  I must know.  What are you doing?  Why
are you working with Brown?  Why did you disappear?"

He cleared his throat, and she could tell he was about to make a glib
reply, when he halted.

"I'm not certain if this is the right thing, if I should tell you. It's
a burden.  I'm offering you fair warning, it's a heavy burden.  Do you
still wish to know?"

"Of course I do!"

"Very well.  I am telling this to you not so much for my own sake, but
for Brown's.  There are people who would be delighted to witness his
downfall."

"I do not give a jig why you tell me, just tell me."

She sighed.

Languidly, his thumb stroked her cheek as he spoke.

"Brown contacted me several months ago.  He had heard of my interest in
science, especially in the realm of disease prevention.  He sent me a
note to meet with him last spring, and it seems he felt comfortable
with me, a fellow Celt."

"What did he contact you about?"

"As you know, there have been more than a few attempts on the queen's
life, the assorted anarchist with a gun, that sort of thing."

"Luckily, unlike our Mr.  Booth, your madmen seem to have rather poor
aim."

"Something to be grateful for.  But Brown worried that our madmen may
have abandoned firearms for something less obvious and more
thorough."

"What do you mean?"

"I will go back a bit.  In recent years, great scientific discoveries
have been made in the field of medicine.  Your Civil War did much to
add to our knowledge.  Until a few years ago, the notion of germs and
disease was unheard of.  On the field, surgeons would amputate a limb
after sharpening their knives on their boots, and wonder why, after a
successful operation, the patient would die.  They were killing their
patients, not with the blade itself, but with disease from their
unwashed hands and the very instruments they employed to help save
lives."

"That is very much along the lines of your notion, is it not?
Preventing disease through hygiene and purification of water?"

"Exactly!"  His fingers folded over her hand, and it felt so very
right.

"So, Brown had heard of my ideas--the servants' network is more highly
evolved than any espionage system in the world--and asked me to take
samples from all of the royal residences, specifically water samples.
You see, there have been illnesses, even deaths, of guests after
staying at a royal residence.  The prince himself, as you'll recall,
almost died three years ago."

"I remember the thanksgiving celebrations--they were astounding."

"Right.  So the Queen became ill last year, and Brown began
thinking--is this a coincidence?  Is it just bad luck that has the
Queen's family ill so frequently?"

"What about her husband's death?"

"That was another thing.  It always bothered Brown that Prince Albert
succumbed so quickly to typhoid fever."

"But that was before the medical discoveries."

"It was, but it may have given someone an idea."

She shook her head in confusion, and he continued.

"We know that typhoid fever can be passed from one person to another.
What if you wished to infect someone?  How would you go about it?  You
could taint the water supply, of course.  And many of the royal homes,
like other homes, have terrible drainage systems.  Water stagnates and
gathers disease.  Brown wanted me to check out the homes and see if
there were any suspicious signs of tampering.  Thus the samples."

"What sort of samples?"

"Again, water mainly, but paint--which you caught me doing at
Sandringham--and soil, food, fabric, just about everything you could
imagine.  I'm working on a way to get air samples, but so far I have
not found a reliable method."

"Joseph, why didn't you just come out and say that to begin with?"

"Because we did not wish to give ideas to any budding John Wilkes
Booths out there, Constance.  It's a terrifying notion.  In theory, one
could ransom an entire city's water supply.  No, it would not do to
have our notions made public.  And another thing..  ."

He did not speak, as if wondering whether he should continue.

"You can trust me," she said softly.

"I know.  That I know.  I just don't know if it would be safe to tell
you the rest.  Already I may have placed you in peril."

"So there can be no more harm done, can there?  Please, Joseph.  This
isn't fair."

"Well... we believe, that is, John Brown and myself, we suspect that we
know the individual behind the scheme."

"So why don't you tell the police and have him arrested?"

"Because, well, damn it, it's the Prince of Wales."

Her jaw dropped, and she shook her head in confusion.

"The Prince of Wales?  Impossible!  Why would he want to poison his own
family?  My God, why would he wish to poison himself?"

"He has no intention of doing either.  Let me clarify--he wishes to
frame someone for the alleged crime, once it has been discovered.  I
believe his valet is the real culprit behind the scheme, not Bertie.
The valet and Brown have been at odds for years, and he planted the
idea.  The prince is pretending very studiously that he has no
knowledge of it.  At least, that is my theory."

"But he's the future king!  How can he do this?"

"He is a future king who longs for respect from his mother.  She will
not allow him to govern anything except for the social set.  He's
frustrated and bitter, and he's turned his anger towards the one person
who has the respect and attention of the Queen, everything he so longs
for ... John Brown.  In his mind it is John Brown and John Brown alone
who stands between the prince and the queen."

"Does the Queen herself know anything about this?"

"Of course not.  And mind you, the Prince has no desire to actually
harm anyone.  That is why I was invited to Sandringham.  He wants me
there as a control.  I believe he's not a little afraid of his own
valet.  No, all the Prince wishes to do is eliminate Brown, to get him
neatly convicted of treason.  Unfortunately, his valet is more
reckless."

"So the Queen has no idea of what is going on under her very nose."

"As far as I know, she does not.  But she trusts Brown above everyone.
He would not worry her, though.  He considers this his business, and
his alone."

"And yours."

"Well, yes.  And mine."

"Do you collect a fee for this service?  I mean, your reputation, even
your life could be at stake."

His laughter filled the small room.

"No.  I'm afraid that on this account, I have proven myself to be a
very bad businessman indeed.  That was part of the reason Brown
contacted me rather than some poor professor.  Not only would I already
be asked to attend functions where I could easily do my work, and Brown
slipped me a few invitations himself, but he knew I would not require a
fee.  And no one would think my presence odd.  No one, that is, except
for me."

"And, therefore, he could keep the project between the two of you,
without having to inform the Prime Minister or anyone else."

"Correct.  Although now, I suppose, it is a secret shared by three, not
two."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Thank you for telling me."

"You are welcome."  He leaned back, relaxing as if for the first
time.

"You know, I really feel better now.  Relieved that you know
everything.  I did not want you to think ill of me."

"I would never think ill of you."

"I... thank you."  He shifted on the bed.  They did not speak for a
long moment.  Yet both were keenly aware of the other's presence, of
their bodies being inches apart, touching in other places, feeling the
warmth in each other.

He was leaning against the headboard of the bed.  Slowly, she slid
beside him and rested her head on his chest.  His arms encircled her,
and he kissed her forehead gently, leaving his lips against her skin,
his breath feathering her temple.

"What are we going to do?"  she whispered against his shoulder.

At first he said nothing, then he took a deep breath.

"I need to finish this, not only for Brown's sake, but for the sake of
the future king.  He's been ill-advised, and that is no fault of his.
Yet he will be king, and must realize that intrigues of this sort are
absolutely unthinkable."

"But after that is resolved, what will we do?"

"I can make no promise, Constance.  I have no idea what will happen,
where this will lead to.  I'm doing the best I can, but doing it
blindly.  I can only say that... I feel, well.  I've never before
..."

"Yes?"

"Good night, Constance."

She realized he would not say anything else, not tonight.  Already he
had confided in her, told her more than she ever imagined, given her
more than she had ever dreamed possible.

"Good night," she whispered.

"Good night."  Then, more softly, she added, "I love you."

There was no response, and she only smiled, grateful at last that she
had been given the chance to tell him.

"Damn him," she muttered again.

He was gone by dawn.  She awoke, ready to embrace Joseph and life and
the world, and he had vanished, leaving a note and a flower.  Nothing
more.

Constance was fully awake now, all illusions of romance had dried up
with the morning dew.

It was a beautiful rose.

A very slight smile touched her lips as she picked it up, wondering
where he had managed to get a perfect red rose in the middle of the
Highlands, in the middle of autumn.  She touched the bloom to her nose,
and the fragrance was exquisite, the petals like perfumed silk.

"Damn you," she repeated, but with less inspiration than before.

Finally, she picked up the note.  There was no name on it, just a piece
of folded paper.

Bracing herself, she opened the note.

"C--I will be back.  --J."

Then, at the bottom, "And I love you, too."

"Damn you."  She grinned at last.  And she wondered when he would be
back, and hoped it would be soon, very soon.

The rest of the household awoke early in the servants' wing of the
castle, the sounds of footsteps rushing up and down the halls and
clicking on the back staircases, brooms hastily sweeping the floors and
hearths, the laughter as the morning meals were prepared for the guests
above and eaten by the staff below.  Noises that never filtered to the
main portion of Balmoral were deafening in the uncarpeted, whitewashed
rooms where the staff worked and lived.

Constance put the pillow over her head, but still the sounds came
through.

Had last night been a dream, she wondered.  Had Joseph really been
there?

He had.  She could detect his scent on the sheets and the pillow case,
a scent that was now mingling with bread baking below and the Highland
mist.

And there was his note, just beyond her reach, and the perfect red
rose.  The thought of him made her stretch and smile as she slipped out
of bed.

She dressed quickly, running a brush through her hair and pinning it
with more speed than care, and went below.

A few "mornings" greeted her, and others smiled and nodded.  On the
large, broad table were loaves of bread and pots of jam and butter,
coffee and tea.

"Is Mr.  Brown down yet?"  Constance asked of a young man with pale
hair.  He stopped chewing for a moment before he replied.

"Aye, he's been down and up again.  The Queen is feeling poorly, so
we're not likely to see Mr.  Brown till nightfall."

Suddenly the day was not quite as glorious as it had seemed just a few
moments earlier.  The Queen was not feeling well.  Of course, it could
be something simple.

Or the prince and his valet were about to make their move.

She had a peculiar, disjointed feeling of not really belonging there,
no matter how friendly the servants were, or how pleasant their morning
banter was.  Constance knew too much, understood far too well that the
daily routine might be shattered at any moment.  They all had tasks to
perform, useful chores to complete, mundane things that seemed terribly
important now.

Her appetite gone, she left the kitchen without eating, but no one
seemed to notice.  Back in her room, she straightened the handtowel by
the wash-stand, smoothed the cover on the bed, and folded all of her
clothes back into the portmanteau.

Again she went downstairs, aimless and feeling her nerves fray.

"Why don't you have a turn about the grounds, miss?"

It was the cook she had spoken to before, a sympathetic-looking woman
wielding a large wooden spoon that seemed to have become an extension
of her arm.  She pointed towards the window, dripping white batter and
wiping up the drops with her apron.

"Go on, miss."  She smiled.

"It will do you good to have a brisk walk about."

Constance nodded, realizing that she was very much underfoot in the
kitchen.  She left without even going back to her room for her
bonnet.

The morning air was bracing without being terribly cold.  She walked
towards the rear of the house, appreciating the barely tamed beauty of
the grounds and the wild landscape beyond.  Just being in that setting
was a restorative, a soothing balm for the soul.  It was the sense of
being a part of a grander scheme, something bigger than anything man
could create, that put life in perspective.

The hem of her skirt soaked up the water from the grass as she walked,
but it didn't matter, not really.  There were wild flowers and armfuls
of heather to gather, and the further she went from the house, the more
splendid the scenery became.

"Good morning."  The male voice seemed to come from nowhere, and she
was startled.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to surprise you."

A slender man wearing a somber black frock coat and a tangerine-colored
vest rose from a stone bench.  About his neck on a chain were a pair of
eyeglasses.  He moved with difficulty, and Constance noticed a
silver-handled cane propped against the bench.

"Oh, please, do not trouble yourself," she said quickly, and he seemed
both relieved and embarrassed as he returned to his seat.

There was something familiar about the man, whose hair was unnaturally
black, especially in contrast to the pallor of his complexion.  His
skin was dry and covered with a web of lines, but no deep wrinkles, and
his lower lip protruded even as he smiled.

It was an extraordinary face.

Slowly he picked up the eyeglasses and peered at her through the
lenses.

"I must apologize for this apparent rudeness, madam.  My sight has been
failing, and I have accidentally given the cut direct to some of my
closest acquaintances.  I just wanted to make sure you were not a
favorite niece of mine, or God forbid, a wife."

When she laughed, his expression changed from curiosity to pleasure.

"Would you do me the honor of joining me, madam?"  He gave a courtly
bow even though he remained on the bench.

"Thank you, sir, but I would not think of invading your solitude."

"Not at all."  His eyes seemed to be decades younger than the rest of
his body.  They were a deep brown, circled by black lashes, and full of
humor.

"Indeed, I would be most grateful.  I was just about to do something
very evil, and only your presence could shame me into resisting the
urge."

Constance smiled.

"I am not sure, sir, if you should divulge the wicked details."

"I should not, but I will."  He gestured to the bench, which had a
large vacant expanse, and she sat beside him.

"I was about to partake of the one item that has been the means of
destroying more romantic liaisons than anything else."

"Now I am certain you should not tell me more," she replied with such
lightness that the gentleman's face creased into a larger grin.

"Tobacco."

"Tobacco?"

"Tobacco," he confirmed.

"I have in my pocket a single, magnificent cigar.  Smoking it is not
only socially vulgar, but my physician claims that for a man of my
years and physical frailties it would be suicide."

"And which of the two reasons would be most likely to prevent you from
indulging in the vice, the threat of appearing vulgar or the danger of
suicide?"

"Vulgarity, of course.  Suicide, if done properly, can be quite
elegant."

Constance laughed, and the gentleman gave her an appreciative, almost
comically obvious perusal, this time without the benefit of the
glasses.

"Do I detect an accent, madam?  Your charming voice hints of magnolias
and, dare I say, tobacco.  You are from the American South, are you
not?  Virginia, perhaps?"

"Sir, you are most astute."  She was more than impressed by his
perception.  Most of the Englishmen she met felt it was impolite to
label a woman as an American, and that to quiz her further as to the
misfortunes of her birth would be an insult.

"I was blessed with a good ear for dialect, although when paired with
the deteriorating sight, it does me little enough good.  It simply
means that I can usually identify the voice of the individual I have
failed to see.  But I do recognize your accent.  I'm happy to claim
many of your countrymen amongst my friends.  Do you know Ashton
Johnson?"

"No, sir.  But my father knew him.  I have read his accounts of the
Confederacy with great interest, and during the war I know of no one
besides General Lee who was held in higher esteem."

"He's a good man, a fine man."  The gentleman seemed to be lost in his
thoughts for a moment, and then he again turned to her.

"Are you a guest of the queen's?"

"Me?  No, no.  I am not."  She arranged her skirts as she spoke.

"I came here to find someone, actually."

"Ah.  Now I understand.  Now I understand perfectly."

"Excuse me?"

"You were on a mission of love, were you not?"

"I... well."  There was something so comfortable about the elderly man
that she was at her ease.

"I suppose I was, although everything is a bit of a muddle now."

"Ah, do not say that.  Are you both alive?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I said, are you both alive, you and your gentleman?"

"Why, yes," she answered.

"Yes, of course."

"Then any problems that arise can be solved."

"That's a very optimistic approach to life," she said.

"But some problems are quite tangled, are they not?"

"Nonsense.  May I tell you a little story?"

"I wish you would."

He chuckled and shifted on the bench, gingerly moving one of his legs
over.

"Gout," he confided.

"I'm sorry.  Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Not at all, my dear.  And as painful as the condition is, I have had a
splendid time acquiring the disease.  Now where were we?"

"Gout?"

"No.  I was going to bless you with a tale.  Many years ago, there was
a very young man.  He was something of a fop, of a dandy, and he had
great charm but very little sense."

"That seems to be an over-used combination."

"Indeed.  Now this young man was one step away from debtor's prison. He
had made something of a name for himself by writing popular novels, you
know the sort, with a great deal of romance and wickedness, but the
wicked are always punished in the end so that the churchgoers will not
take offense.  There was a woman he knew, she was a rather silly thing,
he thought, and she was a dozen years his senior.  She was also
recently widowed.  But he was determined to marry the silly widow."

"For the money?"

"Partially.  At first, in fact, that was the main reason for wishing to
marry her.  By then he had managed to avoid prison by winning a seat in
the House of Commons.  He won by the very skin of his teeth, I might
add.  But as you probably know, an MP cannot be arrested for debt.
Still, he was determined to marry this widow, mainly because he said he
would, and also because she demonstrated a certain reluctance."

"Because of his poverty?"

"No.  Because of his character.  You see, he was a flighty young man,
always engaged in unsuitable affairs with amoral women.  She had no
desire to become yet another of his conquests.  And she had always
fancied the thought of marrying someone with a title.  This young man
was honorable only in the sense that, as an MP, that distinction was
automatically placed before his name."

Constance smiled, and the man patted her hand with one of his large,
dry ones.

"There were so many obstacles that the young man simply forged ahead,
writing to the widow and addressing each letter 'to my dear wife."
Finally she gave in, and they were married."

"Was it a good match?"

"Indeed it was.  Many years later, someone asked the woman if it was
true her husband had married her for her fortune.  And she replied,
"Yes, he did.  But he would marry me a second time for love."  And she
was right, he would have."

Constance was silent for a while, pondering the of man's words.

"What a wonderful story," she said at last.

"And it's true?"

"Every word.  And the interesting thing is that the young man was
eventually given a title, and so the widow got everything she wished,
and so did the young man."

"How wonderful.  And how I envy them.  They were able to find the
happiness they were seeking."

"Yes.  Yes, for the most part they did."  There was a strain in his
voice, and she looked over at her companion.  His gaze was fixed on a
distant mountain, although she suspected he could not really see much
beyond the bench.

"It will soon be two years since I lost her, my Mary Anne."

"You were the young man."  She was not really surprised.  It simply
made more sense now.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, sir."

"Yes.  Thank you."  He took a deep breath and turned towards her.

"So, how can your troubles compare to ours?  And we triumphed in the
end.  How can your story be more misguided and impossible than mine?"

"Well, in that light, I must say all is well.  I must be just feeling a
bit anxious."

"That is a very small problem indeed, madam.  Should you doubt his
feelings, well, that is one thing.  Should you question the union in
any way, that is quite another.  But on those points you are secure.
No, that is no trouble at all."

"It is odd, but until very recently, I was engaged to another man.  The
son of a duke, in fact."

"There are many sons of dukes floating about, my dear.  Even princes.
Look at Prince Chitter-chatter himself."

"Prince Chitter-chatter?"

"Forgive me, that was impolite.  But I refer to the Prince of Wales."
Suddenly the older man crossed his arms and examined her with his eyes
squinting.

"God forbid, that is not the object of your affection, is it?  I will
lose all faith in mankind if you tell me you followed Chitter-chatter
to Scotland."

"No!  No, not at all!"  She began giggling at the thought, and the man
joined her, laughing heartily.  For the first time she noticed that his
teeth were artificial, and not terribly well done.

"No.  It is just that he is not here, and I am lonely."

"So where is he, your love?"

"I don't know."

"He's bolted, has he?"

"I wouldn't say bolted.  He has gone away for a while."

"If I may be bold, perhaps I can do something to assist you?"

"You, sir?"

"Yes.  I am not without connections, my dear.  And there is no greater
goal worth fighting for than true love."

"You are entirely too generous .. ."  she began.

A footman appeared as if, it seemed, from nowhere.

"I beg your pardon, but your presence is requested by the queen, my
lord."

"Yes.  Yes, very well.  I will be along presently."  He stood
unsteadily, and Constance assisted him.

"Thank you, my dear.  I believe this good young man may help me back to
the house."

"Yes, my lord."

They fumbled with the walking stick, and the footman took his other
arm.

"It was a delight to talk with you.  I tire of politics, and do so
enjoy conversing on love and youth, two things I once had in abundance
and will forever long for anew," he said to Constance.

"And pray forgive me for not introducing myself--I am Beaconsfield.  I
am to quit this very afternoon, but should you need me, I am on Downing
Street in town."

"Beaconsfield," she repeated numbly.

"Lord Beaconsfield."

Of course.  That is why he had looked so familiar.  She had seen
etchings of him in the London papers, but had never seen the real man.
Beaconsfield.

"And your name, my dear?"

"Forgive me," she mumbled.

"Lloyd.  Constance Lloyd."

"Miss Lloyd, I thank you for the pleasure of your company.  And may all
go smoothly for you and your gentleman.  Good morning, my dear."

The servant and the old man left together, and Constance sat heavily on
the bench.  Beaconsfield.  It was unbelievable, astounding.  Constance
Lloyd, former governess, had just passed the larger part of an hour
with Lord Beaconsfield, better known by his given name of Benjamin
Disraeli... the Prime Minister of England.

By the time she returned to the castle, the servants' quarters were in
an uproar.  Instead of the smoothly running, if slightly hectic,
machine she had left earlier in the day, it was a chaotic mess.  A
large bowl dropped to the stone floor in the kitchen as Constance
entered, but that was barely noticed.

The moment she entered, one of the cooks shouted, "She's back!  Tell
Mr.  Brown she just came back!"

"What's happening?"  Constance asked.

"Everything has come apart, that's what happened!  People are coming
and going, the prince is in a fit over something or other.  Everything
has come apart."  The cook gasped.

A gardener came in, clumps of mud on his boots, took one look at
Constance, and fled.

"I'll fetch Brown," he said over his shoulder.

"Is anyone ill?"  Constance turned towards a trio of housemaids, who
ran from her when she addressed them.

"No one's ill," said the cook with an ominous nod.

"Will no one tell me what has happened?"

"Mr.  Brown will tell you ... he will--"

"Woman, where have ye been?"  The unmistakable baritone of John Brown
threatened to shatter the window glass.

"I was outside, taking a turn on the grounds.  Good Lord, what in
heaven's name has happened?"

He took her by her arm, raising her above the ground as he pulled her
aside.

"That hurts, Mr.  Brown."

"I do not mean to harm ye, Miss Lloyd," he said between clenched
teeth.

"I need to speak plain.  Smith has been arrested."

"Arrested?  On what grounds?"  The world seemed to tilt.

"He was arrested on the grounds of high treason."

"Treason?"  The words were strangled.  It was impossible.

"Aye, treason.  But lass, before ... He requested I tell you
something."

"Treason," she repeated numbly, unable to reconcile the plain word with
the appalling reality of the meaning.

"For God's sake, woman, you must listen to me.  I don't have time for
this."  He slammed his hand against the frame of the door and she
jumped.

"Before he was arrested, he asked me to tell you he is very sorry, but
has reconsidered whatever he said in his note to you.  He says his
words were an error, and that you will understand his meaning, and he
is sorry if he has harmed you in any way."

"What?  I don't understand.  I can't think."

"Blast it all, woman, he does not love ye!"

"No, no.  That is not true."  Rubbing her eyes, she tried to gather her
thoughts.

"He said that only to protect me.  He doesn't want me to wait for him,
but I will."

"Are ye daft?  I just told you he spoke to me before he was arrested.
Before he was arrested!  Listen, woman!"

"No.  I am sure you are mistaken."

"I do not have the time to play the nursemaid," he growled, and stalked
out of the room.

Constance watched John Brown's retreating back, a sense of outrage
suddenly welled within her.

"Wait a moment," she shouted, stunned by the force of her own voice.
Brown turned slowly, one of his thick eyebrows arched in disbelief.

"You can stop this."  She stepped toward him.

"You alone, Mr.  Brown, know that Joseph has not been engaging in
treasonous plots.  Why did you not do something to prevent this?  Why
haven't you done anything at all?"

Brown glanced over his shoulder, and when he was assured that no one
else was listening--they were all too swept up in the activity of the
prince and prime minister's sudden and unexpected departure, requiring
an extra meal to be prepared immediately--he spoke.

"The very worst thing I could do now, woman, would be to side with
Smith.  There would be no hope then.  Do you not understand?"

"But you two were working together, to secure the queen and her
family's safety.  Surely there is proof of that."

Again he grabbed her arm, pulling her into a back pantry.  His voice
was fierce and rough.

"You are the one who does not understand.  They are using Smith to get
to me."

"Who?"

Brown's humorless laughter snarled close to her ear.

"Do you not know?  Most would gladly attend my hanging, and if that is
not possible, my downfall would satisfy.  Did you not see that
pamphlet?"

"I heard of it."  She squirmed under his hold, and he loosened his
grip, although he did not release her.

"Let me refresh your memory.  It was a slanderous bit of defamation
that indicated the queen and myself were married.  They called it The
Empress Brown."  Never mind the woman has her husband's clothes laid
out every night and morn, as if he were alive yet.  Never mind she
sleeps with a life-sized photograph of his head and shoulders over her
bed, a photograph taken after his death.  There are those who resent my
access to the Queen."

"I know.  Joseph told me all.  But still, you should be able to stop
this."

"Is your head cracked, woman?  She is the Queen of England.  Those who
wish to reach her, and you know very well who I mean, must do so
through me.  Is that not cause enough for resentment?"

"But she needs you," Constance said, her own face not six inches from
his.

"She must have someone to trust, and since her husband's death, she
turns to you."

Brown shook his head.

"Aye.  That is how I see it, as does the Queen.  I have no wish to
become a king, for Christ's sake.  But there are those in her own
family who see me as a threat to their own power.  And those not in her
family who see me as a dangerous foreigner."

"Then so am I," she whispered.

"Aye.  You are at that.  And so is Smith.  But you have an advantage in
being a woman, and a good-looking one at that, and being an American.
Smith and myself are seen as loathsome Celts.  He has more of a chance
alone than with any help from me.  That I know."

Finally he let go of her arm.

"How was he arrested?"  Her voice was weary.

"Why?"

"Because he was found on the grounds of the queen's residence.  They
had meant for me to be found, for me to be seen tampering with the
water.  Instead, they found Smith."

A sudden hope took hold.

"What about the queen herself?  She can speak out for Smith!"

"No.  She does not know what he has been doing.  I kept our plan from
her, not wishing to make her uneasy.  She knows nothing of this, nor
will I tell her, not while she is unwell."

"What can we do, Mr.  Brown?"

"I don't know.  The best thing I believe we can do is stay away from
him, as far away as possible.  I would have gone after the man myself
if I thought it would help him, if I thought that would not only hasten
his destruction."

"Then tell the world," she urged.

"Tell everyone what has been happening."

"Aye.  And think of what would happen, think.  To proclaim it would
again add to his end.  To come out against the prince would not only be
suicide, it would indeed be treason."

She crossed her arms protectively, as if fending off any more blows.

"What can we do?"

"The best thing you can do is to go away.  The best thing I can do is
act as if there is nothing amiss, nothing at all."

"There must be more we can do.  I refuse to accept this."

"There is naught to be done for Smith now.  He alone can get himself
out of this.  Any help from us will be a hindrance."

"I can't possibly do that," she whispered.

"I love Joseph."

"You must forget about him."  Brown's voice softened with a gentleness
she had not thought possible from him.

"He does not love you, lass.  This is hard, I know, but it is true.  Go
back to America.  He does not love you."

"No.  You're wrong.  You don't know him as I do."

"I know him better, lass, for we are of a kind, Smith and myself.  We
are loners.  We prefer solitude to society.  We travel through life
without family, with few friends.  The sooner you forget about him, the
better off you will be--as will Smith.  Your future is elsewhere.
Forget about all of this, for both of your sakes."

"I can't."

"You must, lass.  We all have our share of heartache.  We all do.  Some
more than others.  The best thing you could do, not only for yourself
but for Smith, is to leave.  You're only drawing attention to him by
remaining.  And deep down, you know I speak the truth."

A horrendous sense of clarity washed over her.  He was right.

"Good God."  She clamped her hand over her mouth and looked up at
Brown.

"What have I done?"

"Now we'll have none of that."  He patted her arm, but she did not
notice.

"I'll have someone take you to the station.  There should be an
afternoon train to the south."

"What have I done?"  she repeated.

Brown watched her slowly walk towards her quarters upstairs, her
turquoise eyes filled with tears, and heard her breath catch as she
attempted to withhold a sob.

"The question is, lass," he mumbled to himself.

"What have /just done?"

Philip met her at the Ballsbridge station.

The shock of seeing him would have been far more potent had she not
just spent the journey crying into her handkerchief, rendering her numb
with exhaustion.  Everything Brown said was ringing in her ears, over
and over like hollow drumbeats, assailing her with the truth.

The great statesman Disraeli had been wrong about this.  He had assured
her that all would go well as long as both parties were alive.

And in a matter of minutes, she had discovered that she would have no
future with Joseph.

In a way, Disraeli was fortunate.  Although he was grieving the loss of
his wife, at least he had decades of joy upon which to reflect.  And he
could share his grief at the loss openly, and everyone would understand
his sorrow.

Constance had precious but scant moments to treasure, a touch here, a
press of his hand there, a look, a kiss.  No matter how potent her
loss, she would be forced to bear it in complete silence.  No one would
know what might have been, had life been fair.

"Constance."  Philip's tone was gentle.  His attire was as splendid as
ever, every bit as elegant, with his dark blue frock coat and black
lapels.  But his expression was vastly different.  He seemed .. .
happy.  Relieved.  Relaxed.

"How did you know I would be here?"

"I received a wire from John Brown at Balmoral.  You look about done
in, I'm afraid."

"Philip .. ."  She didn't know where to begin.

"You read the letter I left for you."

"Yes, I did.  I must say you caused quite an uproar at the noble House
of Hastings."

"I am so sorry.  Please, I did not mean .. ."

"No.  You misunderstand."  Philip ran his hand through his hair, then
looked down at her.

"I was furious when I first read your note.  I stormed about, kicked
table legs, cursed the skies, made a string of meaningless vows about
getting even with you, about justice.  That sort of thing."

"Philip."  She shook her head slightly.

"But then I went for a long walk, and this ancient barouche pulled
alongside of me.  It was Viola.  She played the part of the good
neighbor, and, well.  She is not the person you think she is,
Constance."

"She isn't?"

"No.  She is compassionate, warm.  She let me talk and ramble, and I
told her things I've never told a soul.  I told her things I didn't
even realize until I said them aloud in that barouche.  In short, by
the end of the ride I realized that I was in love with her--always have
been, I suppose.  You were right, Constance.  I do not know how I will
ever thank you, ever repay you in a million years.  You were right."

"I am so happy for you, Philip.  Really, I am."

"Well, everyone seems rather pleased except for Dishy.  He's thundering
about now, but less than usual, and certainly less than at the end of
their last engagement."

"How wonderful."  She smiled weakly.

"Yes, well.  Now what about you?  What can I do to help you?  Anything.
I will do anything."

"I don't know.  I suppose I should find another position."

"As a governess?"

"It's what I know.  I think perhaps I should go home."

"To the Isle of Wight?"

"No.  I should really go home, to America.  But I'll forever be
grateful for the offer of marriage.  You and your family have shown me
nothing but kindness, and have gone to a great deal of expense for me.
I promise I will repay you the cost of the clothing."

"Constance, please.  Come back to Hastings House for as long as you
wish.  You need not decide your future now, at this moment.  Rest a
bit, then you will see everything clearly.  " "That's just it, Philip.
I do see everything clearly, and I must leave.  Is that the train to
London?"  She pointed across the tracks.

"I believe so.  Why do you ask?"

"I have a few things to settle there, then perhaps I will go to Cowes
to rest for a while.  Mrs.  Whitestone may be kind enough to put me up
for a few days.  And then I'll go home."

"You can't just leave.  You have people who care about you here.
Reconsider, Constance.  What do you have across the ocean?  No family,
no position.  Don't be hasty."

"There is great opportunity there, I hear.  Maybe I'll go up north, New
York or Boston.  The nation is rebuilding.  The very worst will be that
I become a governess there, now that people are able to afford them
again.  I've been gone a long, long time.  I believe it might be time
for me to go home at last."

"Constance," Philip began.  Then he stopped and gently pulled her
aside.

"Why should you begin your struggle once more?"

"No," she smiled.

"I need to go home."

Finally, Philip handed her the portmanteau.

"You may change your mind, you know.  And if you do, you may come
back."

"Thank you."

"You should not travel alone.  Please allow me to accompany you."

"No, thank you.  It doesn't matter, not really.  I'm a hardened
spinster, Philip.  No one will take notice of me."

"Where will you stay?  In London, I mean.  You said you would go there
first."

"I... to tell you the truth, I had not thought that far ahead."

"I have a townhouse in Knightsbridge, just off Hyde Park.  Do you have
a piece of paper?"

In her reticule she had a pencil and paper, and Philip scribbled the
address.

"I will wire the housekeeper, so she will expect you."

"Thank you.  You are kind, Philip."

"No.  And forgive me, but do you have any money?"

"I have some, yes.  Enough to get me to London and then to Wight."

"Here."  He reached into his jacket.

"I have some notes.  Take them."

"No.  Please, as it is, I will not be able to reconcile what I owe
you...."

"Owe?  You owe me nothing.  I am the one who owes you everything. Here.
 I insist."

Reluctantly, she allowed him to slip the notes into her reticule.

"Thank you."

"You are welcome.  Here, let me take you to the car."

In silence he walked with her back to the train, and helped her into
the cab.  He handed the leather case up to her, and the door clicked
shut behind her.  As the train pulled from the station, she wondered if
she had just made a mistake.

And then she smiled.  No.  This was the right thing, if not for her,
then most certainly for everyone else.

Constance had not been to London for several years, since the last
journey she had made with the Whitestones to purchase clothing for
their eldest daughter's coming out.  If possible, in those short years
it seemed that London had become dirtier, the streets more mired with
horse manure and human waste, and after a few moments in the outdoors,
Constance's garments had acquired a patina of soot.

It wasn't until she was well on her way to London that she counted the
money Philip had given her, and gasped.  It was over two hundred
pounds, more than she had made in four years as a governess.  Added to
the money from Viola, even with the amount she had spent on train fare,
she had over two hundred and thirty pounds.

It was more money than she had seen in her entire life.

From King's Cross station, she hired a carriage to take her to
Knightsbridge, where the housekeeper greeted her cheerfully.  She
explained that she was already preparing the place for his return to
London, since he would soon be there for the opening of Parliament.

After a restless night's sleep and a wonderful breakfast she could
barely eat, Constance set off in another hired hack.

There was but one place she had to go in London.  Joseph's studio, the
place where he did all of his experiments.  There would be proof there,
she knew, that he had been taking samples to test, not planting poison
at the royal homes.

Philip had said it was off Waterloo Road, and she was determined to
find it as quickly as possible.

Both foot and carriage traffic were slowed because of confusion in
directions, coaches stuck in the mud of the streets, their drivers
shouting to each over the twitching ears of the horses.  The
costermongers crossed at will with their carts, not caring about
interrupting traffic, only concerned with peddling everything from
wilted produce to painted dolls and musical instruments and live
kittens.  Their voices rang loud over the constant din, all crying out
their wares in competition with the other peddlers and the street
sounds.

A gypsy band played on a street corner, and a crowd gathered to hear
their fiddles and guitars and tambourines, and watch the rainbow swirl
of a dancer's skirt.  Men maintained expressions of dignified boredom,
while women with their hatboxes or paper packages talked excitedly,
their bonnets touching like duck bills, or plumed hats sweeping against
each other.

Newspaper boys stood on their hard-won corners, shouting out the
headlines of the latest editions.  She had the driver buy three papers,
but none of them had any mention of Joseph and his arrest.

"How odd," Constance said, wiping the still-tacky ink from her fingers.
His every movement has been { suspicious and newsworthy just a few days
before, and now that he had been arrested, there was not a single
comment.  Perhaps the news had not yet reached London, she reasoned.
Perhaps Brown, with his casual airs, had lead the reporters astray.

The carriage crossed the Thames to the east side over Waterloo Bridge.
The stench of the river was almost overwhelming, as thick and
unpalatable as the sludge in the water itself.  The river was filled
with debris, bits and pieces of lives that were no longer of use, with
crockery and furniture and cart wheels.  A three-legged chair floated
by, and at the river's edge was a young boy with ripped trouser knees
attempting to lure the chair to him with a stick.

Constance asked the driver to turn down Waterloo Road, and he looked at
her with mild alarm; clearly he was not pleased with what he saw nor
with the direction she had requested.  This was not the fashionable
side of London.  The pedestrians no longer carried packages or seemed
to be walking with any great determination in any direction at all.

All of the buildings on the lane looked similar in their lack of
ornamentation and detail.  Constance asked the driver to please wait,
and she descended to the street.  The driver seemed to be poised to
assist her, but after one look at his surroundings, he remained perched
on his bench.

Feeling conspicuous, she approached several of the buildings without
success.  Finally, just as she was about to give up hope, she came to a
small building.  Her knock was answered by a young man.

"Pardon me," she inquired.

"I am looking for the laboratory of Mr.  Joseph Smith.  Do you know
where it may be?"

"This was it, miss," the young man said.

"This is it?"  She had found the place!

"May I please come in?  I am a friend of Mr.  Smith's, and--"

"I said, this was it, miss.  It is no longer."

"I don't understand."

"Mr.  Smith is no longer using this location.  He took everything with
him.  He's gone now."

"May I please see where the lab was?"  Perhaps there would be some sort
of clue, something that would help clear his name.

"I'm afraid not, miss.  Someone else has let the location.  I wish you
a good day."

The young man closed the door, and she heard the distinctive sound of a
bolt sliding into place.

She had to think.  She had to find something else to do.  Although she
would never see him again, she had to somehow help Joseph before she
left England forever.  That was the very least she could do.

"Did I do well, sir?"  the young man asked.

The older gentleman nodded.

"Very well, lad."  For the boy's troubles he was given a gold
sovereign, more money than he had ever seen at one time.

"Thank you!  Thank you, sir!"

The young man left, allowing the gentleman to stay in the laboratory,
examining vials and samples and notes that the previous occupant,
Joseph Smith, had left behind.

No matter what the turn of events, it seemed highly unlikely that Mr.
Smith would ever be returning to his East End laboratory.

Very unlikely indeed.

The gentleman smiled before removing his hat and coat.

Very unlikely indeed.

There was only one place left to turn.

Constance dressed with extra care the next morning, aware that her plan
was audacious and perhaps not entirely sane.  Again there was no
mention of Joseph Smith in the morning paper, although by now she was
well aware that meant little.  It simply proved that the London
reporters were not nearly as clever or well-connected as they fancied
themselves to be.

Before leaving the house in Knightsbridge she sent a note to Harriet
Whitestone in Cowes, requesting that she please be allowed to come for
a brief visit.  After that task was completed, there was nothing to
delay her mission.

She comforted herself with the simple fact that whatever transpired,
she would soon be leaving England forever, and therefore need never see
these people again.  No matter what she did, an ocean would soon be
between Constance and the rest of the country.

Her destination was but a short walk from the townhouse, another
address on the West End.  Everything was vastly different on this side
of the Thames--the smells, the sights, the people.  Everything was
respectable and decent and good, or at least had the cunning to appear
so.

She approached the somber house on Downing Street warily, every ounce
of her strength devoted to propelling her forward.  It was no easy
task.  The numeral "ten" was indicated in polished brass, large but
subdued at the same time, as if to say, if you needed to ask whose
residence it was, you need not bother to knock.

Well-dressed men milled about the address, some with expressions of
bright optimism, others with tired and worn faces, men who had once
held great hope but were now accustomed to defeat and frustration. They
stood in tight clusters, elbow to elbow, encouraging each other as they
intimidated everyone else.  The men stepped aside as she passed through
them, all silent, a few winking and nudging their companions. She hit
the brass knocker with more authority than she felt.

The door opened.

"Yes, ma'am?"  A footman in a powdered wig answered.  He did not seem
to be quite awake, much less capable of communicating a message.

"Yes."  She straightened.

"I wish to see Lord Beaconsfield."

"I am afraid he is indisposed at present."  The man possessed the
remarkable ability to speak without altering any feature except for his
lower lip, and that seemed to move with great reluctance.

The door began to close, and she placed her foot over the threshold.

"Forgive me.  I was just a guest at Balmoral with Lord Beaconsfield,
and I did wish to inquire after his health."

The man's eyelids opened just slightly wider.

"If you wish to leave a card, you may do so."

"I have no card.  At least, not with me.  I must have left them back,
um, at the palace."

She smiled with what she hoped passed for confidence.

The door began to close again.

"Please, do tell Lord Beaconsfield that I wish to speak to him about
the same matter."

"The same matter?"

"Yes.  We spoke at great length in Scotland about a specific matter."
Glancing behind her, as the others stepped closer to catch her words,
she whispered, "I would prefer not to mention the topic.  It will do
neither myself nor Lord Beaconsfield any credit."

The drowsy eyes opened just a bit more.

"Indeed.  And your name, ma'am?"

Would he know her name, she wondered?  The unmitigated gall to assume
the Prime Minister of England would take time out of his day to discuss
a personal matter was more than impertinent.  It was very nearly
unforgivable.

But then again, unforgivable would best describe almost every action
she had performed within the last two weeks.  Soon she would leave the
country, she reassured herself.

"My name is Miss Constance Lloyd."

The door closed, and this time she did not prevent it.  All she could
do now was wait and hope, just like the dozens of other people who were
on Downing Street with urgent business.  Perhaps their business would
be considered life or death.

Well, so was hers.

After a few minutes the other men seemed to grow accustomed to her
presence and speak freely amongst themselves.  She heard bits of
conversation on grazing violations in the west and of high local
taxation in the south.  One man was complaining bitterly about the high
taxes on French wine.

The door opened, and all gathered fell silent, waiting to hear who had
been selected for an audience.

Constance stepped forward, passing men who offered her looks filled
with both curiosity and resentment.  She alone was allowed entrance to
Number Ten.

"Please make yourself comfortable," the footman said with doleful
solemnity.  She sat on a red cushioned couch in the hallway, and again
she waited.

Other gentlemen emerged from a room upstairs, adjusting their cravats
and dusting their hats as they descended the staircase.  They spoke in
hushed tones, unable to express their true opinions of what had just
transpired until they were back at their clubs or perhaps a local
public house.

She shifted her gloves from one hand to the next, counting the spokes
on the banister, thirty-four from what she could see, and the stripes
on the hallway wallpaper, one hundred and twelve.  At last she was
summoned.

"This way, Miss Lloyd," the footman said with a bow.

She followed him up the staircase and to the left, where a door stood
slightly ajar.  He spoke without entering the room.

"Miss Lloyd, my lord."

"Miss Lloyd?  Do come in," came the parched voice she recognized from
Balmoral.

"Forgive me for not escorting you myself.  The gout."

She entered his office, and he rose slightly from behind his chair. His
desk was covered with papers, and there was a general air of orderly
chaos.

"I am pleased to see you looking so well, Miss Lloyd," he said as he
eased himself back into his chair.

"Thank you, and you are looking well also," she said, although it was
far from the truth.  His skin had a greenish cast to it that did not
seem at all healthy, and there were dark circles under his eyes.  As
with the natural light in Scotland, his complexion seemed to be
worsened by contrast with his overly black hair.  The color would have
been remarkable on anyone, but on a man of his age and coloring, it was
all the more apparent that his hair had been both dyed and curled.  A
single lock fell rakishly, and incongruously, over his forehead.

"Now, relieve me from affairs of state, my dear, and regale me with
affairs of the heart."  He pushed aside his papers and smiled.

"Well, my lord," she began.

"If you recall, when last we met we were discussing a certain matter,
and you concluded that as long as both parties were alive, the case was
not hopeless."

"Yes.  Yes, I do recall saying those words, and still heartily believe
them."  As he spoke, he placed a hand over his mouth and turned away
for a moment.  It was then she realized his false teeth had slipped.

Gathering her composure as he slid his teeth back into place, she spoke
as soon as he was finished.

"My lord, the problem is that one of the parties may not be alive much
longer."

"Good God, are you ill?"

"No.  I am not the one in danger."

"Then it is your young man.  I am grieved to hear it.  What is the
nature of his illness?"

"The nature of his illness?  Well, my lord, you see, he is suffering
from being wrongly accused of treason."

The expression on the Prime Minister's face would have been comical if
the situation was not so dire.  She gave him a brief summary of all
that had transpired, including Joseph's name and the involvement of
John Brown.  And she mentioned the prince and his valet.

Disraeli listened, and after she had finished speaking, he folded his
hands slowly on top of the desk.

"My dear, I appreciate the courage it took for you to come here and
plead Smith's case.  But to be frank, I I have heard nothing of this. I
was at Balmoral when \ this supposed event transpired, yet was not
apprised of any such situation."

Constance was completely stunned.  But from his manner, and the
surprise on his face as she revealed , the more startling details, he
was being utterly truthful.

"Where is he then?"  she asked, shaking her head.

"And why would Brown tell me a falsehood?"  I "My dear, you may not be
aware of the nature of most Highlanders.  Rumor and gossip are chief
enjoyments for them, regardless if the stories are true or false. Brown
may have fallen victim to such a tale, and related it to you before he
found that it was just that--a tale."

"But what about Joseph?"  An awful notion began to enter her mind.  It
was so terrible, she could barely breathe.

"Is it possible that your affections for him are greater than his are
for you?"  He spoke barely above a whisper, but his words seemed to
blare in her ears.

"I hadn't thought of that until just now."  She clenched her hands.
After the night at Balmoral?  Was it possible?

She closed her eyes, remembering how she had behaved.  No better than a
brazen hussy.  Worse.  How he must despise her.

And then another thought crossed her mind.  He must have put Brown up
to the story.  It was a desperate attempt to get rid of her, to lose
her once and for all, for she was so determined he knew he had to make
the tale brilliant.

How he must loathe and pity her.

She had been a fool, and worse.  Constance Lloyd, who had always tried
to behave well, had gone to Britain to show the English that an
American could demonstrate every bit as much decorum and taste.  And
look what she had done.

How ashamed her parents would be if they knew, but thank God they were
beyond such cares.  For the first time since their deaths, she was
grateful they were not here to see what a folly their daughter had made
of her life.

"Miss Lloyd?  Are you well?"

"Yes.  Yes, I am well, thank you."  She stood unsteadily.

"I must not keep you any longer, my lord.  Thank you for your kindness.
Thank you."

Constance left the office, her gaze straight ahead, her entire being
steeped in humiliation and disgrace.  She did not see anyone--the
footman, the Prime Minister himself as he walked her partially down the
hall.

She did not see the older man on the staircase as she passed him.  He
looked behind as she continued her descent, pausing for a moment before
he continued.

"So, you are the new prime minister?"  the gentleman said with a broad
smile.

"Pity.  I wonder how the deuce we will ever survive."

"Ballsbridge!  By God, it's good to see you in town again!  How are
your tunnels?"

"Very well, sir.  I added a new ballroom below the apple grove."

"Splendid!  Come in, come in.  When I heard you wished to see me, I
cleared the afternoon for a late luncheon.  I beg you, wait a moment.
These new teeth are giving me a devil of a time."

"A shame.  And I thank you, sir.  The matter I've come to see you
about concerns that young lady who just left, and a certain young
man."

"Come in," he repeated.

"By God, Ballsbridge, it's good to see you in town again!"

Cowes, Isle of Wight November 1874 "Are you sure you wish to go through
with this, Constance?"  Harriet Whitestone asked once more, pouring
another cup of tea in the parlor.

"This seems such a drastic measure."

Constance smiled at her friend.

"Not really, Harriet."  It still felt strange to call her former
employer by her first name.

"I am just going home, that is all."

"But you are not going home at all.  You are going to New York City, a
place as strange to you as India would be."

"And if I had managed to secure a position as a governess in India, I
am sure I would be going there as well.  Really, Harriet, this is all
for the best."

"I'm beginning to wonder if I did the right thing by writing you those
glowing references."

Constance laughed.

"Of course you did!  I can't thank you enough.  The Colonel and his
wife sound wonderful, even if they are Yankees."

"Well, at least they are wealthy Yankees."  Harriet stepped forward and
touched her friend's shoulder.

"Why will you not even try to contact Mr.  Smith?  This is so unlike
you, Constance.  You have always been so bold with what you want."

"Too bold, I'm afraid," she murmured to herself.

"Pardon me?"

"Nothing, Harriet.  No, I cannot write to Mr.  Smith.  It is over, it
did not end well for me, but hopefully it will end well for him."

"There was a mention of him in the paper yesterday."

"Was there?"  She tried to keep her voice neutral.

"And what did it say?"

"Not much, really.  It seems he has been asked to head some
governmental committee to address the problems of urban poverty."

"Really?  How wonderful.  He will enjoy that a great deal, I'm sure."

It hurt to think of him.  It filled her with extraordinary pain to hear
his name, but at least he was well.  The prime minister had been right,
the rumor of his treason charge had been groundless.  She had made a
complete fool of herself by pleading for the life of a man who was not
in danger, only attempting to escape the unwanted advances of a
governess.

All in all, the past few months had been an utter catastrophe.

"Oh, and there was something else of interest.  A Lord Merrymeade
passed away in his sleep.  Did you not know that gentleman?"

"Yes, yes, I did."  She thought of Abigail, and wondered if she would
again pursue Joseph.  That would make sense.  At last they could both
be happy.

"Constance, what is wrong?  Are you not feeling well?"

"No.  I'm fine, Harriet.  Are there any more scones?"

The two men sat in the walnut-paneled splendor of the club, each
sipping a brandy and soda from fine crystal tumblers.

"So, it's done, then," said Joseph, rubbing his temple.  He had been
plagued with headaches of late, fierce and unrelenting headaches that
nothing seemed to ease.

"Yes.  It is done, my friend."  Philip smiled and placed his glass on
the table by his arm.

"How does Cavendish feel about it?"

"Well, as you could well imagine, he is quite put out.  This has
happened to him before with Viola, you know.  So, I suppose he is quite
used to it, but still, it is something of a sting.  Thank goodness
Mother had not placed an announcement in the paper yet, so he doesn't
have that humiliation to contend with."

"Thank goodness, indeed," he replied.

"Has your mother made any more attempts to place notices of your
father's death in the gazettes?  I have missed seeing his name.  It's
always pleasing to see someone you know mentioned in the paper."

Philip laughed.

"No.  She seems to have abandoned that trick for the time being,
although I'm sure after the wedding, she will return to it with new
vigor.  Mother always needs something of note with which to I pass the
time.  Or perhaps she will busy herself with I finding Dishy a fiancee,
now that his usual one will be ; otherwise occupied."  I Joseph
smiled.

"Smith, do you mind my saying something?"

"Of course not.  What is it?"

"You are not looking well."

"I've been working too hard," he replied.

"After the committee is set up, I'll have more time to relax.  That's
all it is."

"The hell it is.  It's Constance, isn't it?"  Joseph shook his head,
then closed his eyes.  The movement was painful, jarring his headache
into a new pounding.  I "I know where she is, you know.  She is intent
on paying us back for the clothing and her transportation once she
begins her new position," Philip said quietly.

"Why don't you drop her a note?"

"No."

"Are you under the impression that I am angry at you over this whole
mess?  I am not, you know.  Not in the least.  Had it not been for
Constance, I would have never known that Viola Rathbottom has always
been in love with me.  That is why she did all those ridiculous things.
You know the things I mean."

"The ink over the doors?  The tobogganing down staircases on silver
platters?  The soda siphon battles?  By the way, I saw Viola and
Abigail Merrymeade in the park the other day.  They both seemed to have
hurt their legs.  I do hope it was nothing serious."

"Hurt their legs?  Oh," Philip chuckled.

"Because they were limping, is that what you mean?"

"Yes, Philip.  They were both very nearly lame, from what I could
tell."

"No, it's the newest thing.  It's called The Alexandra Limp," after the
Princess of Wales.  It is all the rage amongst the ladies to emulate
the walk.  It's quite captivating, really."

"Are you mad?  Are we to imitate every infirmity the royals possess?
What's next--stylish whooping cough or fashionable dandruff?"

"Not a bad idea, Smith.  But back to Constance, why--" "Please stop. My
head is pounding, Hastings."

"I do not love her.  I do not believe I ever did, although I will
always be grateful to her for all she has done.  Funny, before I met
Constance, I assumed I had all the answers.  It took her to point me to
the questions I had never even thought to ask."

"Enough, Philip.  I am going now."

He rose to his feet, and Philip stood as well.

"You know, Joseph, I feel damned lucky to have had a friend like
you."

Joseph smiled weakly.

"I feel the same."

"So will you do me a favor?"

"I was so close to a clean escape."  Joseph withdrew his hand.

"What does this one involve?  Capturing a rabid lion?  Tasting a new
flavor of arsenic?  Just tell me."

"I want you to go after Constance."

"I have done that once, Philip.  I will not do that a second time. Good
day, my friend."

He began to walk away, shoving a hand in his trouser pocket.  Hastings
would never give up.  Once he got a notion in his head, it was hell to
get loose.

"She saved your life, you know."  Philip's voice carried down the
club's carpeted hall.

Joseph turned.

"I am aware of that.  With the bandits.  That is old news.  Again, I
bid you good day, sir."

"No.  She went to Disraeli after you were arrested."  Joseph stopped
and returned to Philip.

"What did you say?"

"She went to London to plead for your life."

"I thought your father did that.  I have thanked him, many times.  Your
father went to Disraeli."

"My father alone could not have done it, my friend.  He did not have
the whole story.  It was by combining what Father said with what
Constance had just related that Disraeli realized the whole episode was
simply a squabble between the Prince and Brown run amok, and you were
caught in the middle.  Go on with you, Smith.  You have more important
things to do than listen to old news."

Philip sat again hard in his chair, and Joseph returned to his.  They
ordered two more brandy and sodas, and did not leave the club for many,
many hours.

New York city April 1875 The McKenzie children were, as usual, in high
spirits.  Their joy was infectious as they ran towards Fifth Avenue,
Lydia with the buttons of her gloves open, Gunther with the laces of
his boots yet untied.

On most days Constance was far more efficient, always one step ahead of
the children and their incorrigible ways.  In truth, she thoroughly
enjoyed the McKenzie children, even their occasionally dreadful manners
and Gunther's lisp.  The brown-stone house in the East Thirties was
always a bevy of cheerful activity, with Mrs.  McKenzie dashing from
one fund-raiser or meeting to another, and the Colonel continuously
bringing home his Wall Street friends.  , All who met Constance were
immediately impressed with her accent, which they took to be elevated
and dignified.

"She is from England, you know," she heard Mrs.  McKenzie comment to a
friend as they left the house for a meeting of the Unfortunate Children
of the Cruel Streets Society.

"She was to many a duke there, I understand."

"Well," her friend had replied, "better a governess in America than a
duchess in England.  That's what I always say."

"Indeed," Mrs.  McKenzie had agreed.

"You are so right, Mrs.  Appleton."

Constance felt it best not to correct any of their slight
misapprehensions.  Just as in England, where it had been to her
advantage as a governess to play the role of the half-savage American,
now it did well for her to be an almost duchess.  Of course, they did
not know the truth.  That very morning the final blow had arrived.
Viola, the new Lady Philip Hastings, had written her yet another
gossipy letter.

"Slow down, Lydia," Constance instructed as the girl skipped beyond her
reach to the corner.

"Better slow down, or Miss Lloyd will put you in the Tower of London
and you will die a terrible death just like the little princes.  Isn't
that so?"  Gunther looked up at Constance.

"I myself was not responsible for that particular punishment, Gunther."
His hand tightened in hers.

"That was my great-great-grandmother."  His eyes widened in admiration.
They crossed Fifth Avenue to the light green oasis of the park,
navigating the cobbled street, threading past the carriages and
omnibuses and carts and hansom cabs, all spilling their passengers and
contents onto the road.  The mansions on the east side of the street
seemed to shimmer in the springtime sun, all marble gaudiness and stone
pretension, pressed into tiny plots of land, each house vying for
attention.

"Lydia, the horse!  Mind the horse!"  Constance shouted as the eldest
child, at nine, ran into the street.

"The Tower for sure, Miss Lloyd," muttered six-year-old Gunther.

"At the very least."  She smiled.  The little boy returned the smile.

The zoo in the park was filled with children, faces bright and eager on
one of the first fine days of the spring.  The scent of roasting corn
and salted peanuts, of sticky-sweet caramels and candied apples mingled
with the animal scents of the zebras and the old lion, who seemed most
content just to lie on his back and snore.

When they reached the monkey cage, and both Lydia and Gunther dissolved
into giggles at their antics, she could at last sit down and ponder the
letter she had received in the morning post from Viola.  Pulling it
from her drawstring bag, she read again the essentials of the note.  .
The most amazing thing, dear Constance!  My own dear Abigail has
arrived, and, as you know, she is but recently made a widow.  Yet all
is not sorrow and gloom here at Hastings House, and she is about to
make a match with someone YOU know VERY WELL INDEED!  Can you believe
this?  She is to become my best of friends in marriage as well as in
life.  I only wish you could be here to share our joy..  ..

That was enough.  She was happy for Viola, of course, but to read about
Joseph and Abigail was more than she could bear, even on such a
beautiful day.

Gunther turned to her with a rather alarmingly accurate imitation of a
scratching monkey, his lower lip jutting out as his left arm collapsed
over his head to pull his right ear.

"Keep that up, Gunther dear, and you're sure to be a hit on the
debutante circuit," she said.

Lydia grinned over her shoulder at Constance, and returned her
attention to the animals.

Really, she was quite happy.

She was back in America, although it was an America that felt strange
and foreign, the pace so fast she feared she would not survive a
shopping trip to the Ladies' Mile, or even crossing Broadway.  The
people spoke quickly, the men behaved with manners, but they seemed
rushed and not sincere.  The women were all busy, no matter what their
station in life.

No one seemed to sit still for a moment.

Constance found herself adapting the same behavior, not because she had
so very much to do--for the McKenzies were more than generous with her
free time.  Instead, she found as many activities as possible, simply
because, by keeping in constant motion, she was unable to dwell too
much on Joseph.

During the day the plan worked well enough, and she only thought of him
during restful moments, such as at the park or when she took the
children to a matinee.  Her mind would wander, and she would remember
something he said, or an expression that once passed over his features,
or recall his smile.  Or his touch.

But no matter how exhausted she was, how brutally she had driven
herself to help Mrs.  McKenzie with some sort of do-good society in the
evening hours, she would still fall into her brass bed, close her eyes,
and see Joseph.  His face would appear with such clarity that she could
almost imagine touching it, or running a finger along the scar on his
cheek.  But the very idea of touching his face brought the whole
situation into focus.

Never again would she touch, or even see, his face.  And now he would
finally marry Abigail Merrymeade.

"Miss Lloyd!  Miss Lloyd!  Can I have a licorice whip?"  Gunther
called.

"Me, too, Miss Lloyd!  Please!  Me, too!"  Lydia chimed in.

A tightness clutched at her throat as she saw the two children, their
eyes bright with hope and joy.  For she knew she would never have
children of her own.  Her life would be a succession of other women's
children, sharing the happiness of other families until it was finally
time for her to find another family with younger children to care for,
to love as her own.

But never her own.

"Is anything wrong, Miss Lloyd?"  Lydia stepped towards Constance,
genuine concern on her open features.

"Is there sad news in your letter?"

"No.  Not at all."  Constance folded the paper and slipped it back into
her bag.

"Licorice, did you say?"

They both nodded.

"Only on one condition."

Again, they both nodded.

"You must promise to be very, very well-behaved until you each reach
the age of eighteen."

"We will!  We promise!"  they both shouted.

Constance laughed, taking each of their hands in hers.

"Very well then.  Let's go off in search of licorice."

And they walked away.  The children did not seem to realize that the
brightness of Constance's blue eyes was not caused by the anticipation
of licorice.

The brightness was caused by unshed tears.

Constance carefully addressed the envelope to Hastings House.  It
contained her twice-monthly payment of two dollars, her effort to pay
off her debt.

She calculated that, at the rate at which she was going, her debt
would be fully paid by the year nineteen sixty four.

"I believe I will celebrate on that day," she said to herself as she
blotted the ink.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Come in," she smiled, anticipating one of the children.  She had put
them to bed early that evening, exhausted as they were by a full day at
the park.

"Constance?"  It was Mrs.  McKenzie, splendidly dressed in a sleeveless
gown with peacock feather designs, shimmering in the light.  In her
hair she wore a single blue feather.

"Mrs.  McKenzie, you look just lovely!"

"Oh, dear me, thank you.  I did not come up here to fetch a compliment,
but you must remind me to do so more often."

Constance stood up from her desk.

"May I help you with anything, Mrs.  McKenzie?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so.  Now I know you've had a long day with the
children, but the Colonel has brought home an unexpected guest for our
dinner party, a gentleman, you see.  And as nice as he seems to be, it
throws off the setting of the table.  And after I worked so hard to
make it boy, girl, boy, girl.  Would you mind slipping into something
and joining us downstairs?  If you have nothing suitable, I can lend
you a gown."

"So I'm to eat at the grown-up table?"

"Just this once," Mrs.  McKenzie laughed.

"But I will insist that you help me cut the Colonel's roast for him.
Will you, Constance?  Will you please join us?"

"I am flattered, Mrs.  McKenzie.  Of course I would love to join
you."

"Splendid!  And do you need a gown?"

"No, thank you.  I do have one that would be suitable."

"You are an absolute gem!  Just come on into the parlor whenever you
are ready.  Oh, and shall I send Kathleen up to do your hair?"

"Thank you, no.  I'll be fine.  And, Mrs.  McKenzie?"

Her employer paused at the door.

"Thank you," Constance said simply.

The other woman smiled.

"No, my dear.  It is you who should be thanked.  Come down when you are
ready."

Constance descended the staircase slowly, listening to the sounds of
the guests laughing in the parlor, the gentle clinking of glasses,
Kathleen the maid offering delicacies from a silver tray.

It was vaguely reminiscent of the other life she had had, the one that
had lasted a few short months.  The house was not as grand, nor was the
staircase, but the dress was one she had last worn at Sandringham with
Joseph.

She had been unable to part with her gowns, not for reasons of greed or
practicality, for she did not ever expect to find an occasion to wear
one.  Instead, she had kept them as reminders of that short spell, the
interlude.

The gowns reminded her of Joseph.

She stopped in the hallway, examining herself in the large mirror
beside the parlor doorway.  She did not look any different than she did
at Sandringham or Hastings House.  Her features were the same, her hair
still dark and too thick to be managed easily.  Perhaps she was a
little more slender, but that was it.

And her eyes.  Her eyes were different.

How she envied Abigail Merrymeade.

Her gown, the silver silk she had worn at Sandringham, the one Joseph
seemed to like, felt strange after her months of practical governess's
attire.  In her hair she had braided a faux pearl necklace.  It was
quite a good imitation, from one of the new stores on the Ladies'
Mile.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the parlor.  The place seemed
to be filled with people, although in reality there were only twelve,
including herself.

"Miss Lloyd!"  The Colonel was at her side, his salt and pepper
mustache waxed to perfection.

"How delightful!  Please let me introduce you to our guests...."

Constance shook gloved hands with her own gloved hands, trying to fix
each name with the proper face, although after the third couple she all
but gave up.  They all had similar appearances, well-fed and satisfied.
The glow of the gaslights gave them all a bluish hue, making the red
gowns seem purple and the white ties gray.

"And this is Mr.  and Mrs.  Jebediah Baxter of Albany, New York.  Oh,
and finally, our friend from across the pond, Mr.  Joseph Smith ..."

Constance swayed as she looked up into his eyes, for a moment wondering
if this was yet another of her endless dreams.  But he caught her in
his arms.

"Dear me, Miss Lloyd seems quite unwell...."

"Does anyone have smelling salts?"

"She is the governess.  Perhaps this is all too much for the poor
thing."

She heard the chatter and din, but it seemed far removed, a different
world entirely.

"Joseph," she breathed when at last she was able.

"Constance."  His eyes were steady.

"Colonel McKenzie, they seem to be acquainted already!"

"She is English, you know."

Her hands gripped his forearms, the solid strength there, the strength
she thought she would never again feel.

"Here," he murmured.

"Come over here and sit."

His voice, the familiar lilt she thought she would never again hear.

Joseph.

"How .. . why ... oh, Joseph," she stammered.

And then he smiled, the smile she had seen so often in her mind's eye,
only more glorious than she could ever have imagined because now he was
real.

"I will answer each of your questions, so economically phrased.  First,
how.  Well, Constance, by ship, as I assume you would imagine.  I am
doing some work for the government, investigating how you Americans are
dealing with the issues of poverty, if at all.  And I had some
investments to look after on Wall Street.  Your second question, why.
Well, that is simple.  Because of you."

"How .. ."  she began again, then closed her eyes.

"I thought I answered that.  Oh, I see.  How did I know where you would
be?"

She nodded.

"Simple.  You have been kind enough to send Philip some money each
month.  We have calculated that, at your present rate, you will have
paid off your debt by--" "Nineteen-sixty-four."

"Precisely.  So your return address has been on the envelopes, a very
American custom, I might add.  And I took the liberty of contacting
Mrs.  Whitestone, who told me all of the circumstances of your
journey."

"All of them?"

"All of them."

The other guests had returned to their conversations, and no one took
any notice of Joseph and Constance on the -yellow settee.  He held her
hand still, her one hand clasped between his two large hands.

"I have a headache," she sighed, rubbing her temple.

"I had been having those myself, so I was hoping you would be the
cure."

"This is impossible."

"No, it is not.  I'm here.  As long as both parties are alive, it seems
to me--" "Disraeli!"  She had not meant to shout, but her voice seemed
to cut through the other conversations.  Everyone in the parlor stared
at her, a few of the women with mild trepidation.

"It's a game," Joseph said to the assembly.

"Very popular in England.  It's called "Prime Minister," and Miss Lloyd
just trumped my Gladstone."

There was a moment's pause before they all returned to their clusters,
glancing only occasionally at the couple on the couch.

"You saved me, Constance.  You saved my life."  His voice was rough,
and he leaned in toward her, his breath kissing her bare neck.

"I don't understand."

"Listen to me, and we'll never speak of this again.  I was arrested at
Balmoral."

"Joseph .. ."

"I was arrested on the grounds of high treason.  It was a colossal
misunderstanding, of course, but it came very close to getting out of
hand.  What began as a fascinating bit of business very nearly cost me
my life."

"I can't think straight.  Brown.  He told me you did not care for me..
.."

"I was under arrest.  I know you well enough to think you would try
something foolish, and thank God you did."

"You mean you didn't tell him before your arrest?"

"Of course not.  But I was ready to do anything to disassociate myself
from you, and just about everyone else.  I did not wish you to suffer
for knowing me.

Unfortunately, that meant you and Brown were the only ones with the
full story."

"And then I went to Disraeli," Constance began.

"But I tried to get into your laboratory for proof of what you were
doing, but you had moved it."

"Not at all.  Everything was in place, right off the Waterloo Road."

"But the boy there said you had quit the place."

"Indeed, because the boy there had been paid by the Duke of
Ballsbridge."

"Philip's father?  He left his tunnels and went to London?"

"He had gone to town with Philip's keys to do the same thing you were
trying to do.  The servants had told him what they suspected about my
arrest--his gardener's son works at Balmoral.  You know how the duke is
with his staff--they told him everything, although I did not realize it
at the time.  He'd been replacing Philip's paint and canvases all
along, and luckily he was curious to look over my own work as well.  He
managed to secure proof in the form of my notes, the logs I keep.  But
that would not have been enough to let me go free.  The truth is, I
needed both you and the duke, and you both came through for me.  I can
never repay you, never."

"Joseph."  She smiled, still amazed by his presence.

"I have very good friends, better than I could ever imagine.  Better, I
fear, than I could ever possibly hope to deserve."

"Oh."  He was there out of a sense of gratitude.  She remembered
then--Abigail Merrymeade.  That was all.  He had stopped by while in
New York on other business to express a very gentlemanly sense of
gratitude.

"I understand you are to be congratulated."

"Well, thank you," Joseph beamed.

"I appreciate it.  Not every man gets off a charge of treason with nary
a word to the press.  I was lucky, you see, in that at the time I was
arrested, the London reporters were far more concerned with the scandal
of--" "No.  I mean on your marriage.  Congratulations."

"Again, I thank you, although I do find this most unconventional."

"What do you mean?"

"I believe the custom is for the would-be groom to ask the would-be
bride to marry him first, and then it is the pleasant duty of other
people, not the would-be bride, to congratulate the happy man.  But
thank you."

Her head was spinning.

"No.  I mean Abigail Merrymeade.  Are you not betrothed to her?"

The smile finally left Joseph's face.

"Abigail Merrymeade?  Where on earth did you get that idea?"

"From Viola.  She wrote me a letter--" "Viola?"

"Well, yes."

"No, my love.  You have been misinformed.  The charming widow
Merrymeade is to wed none other than our own beloved Cavendish."

"Dishy!"  she again shouted, and the room fell silent.

Joseph smiled toward the guests.

"Another parlor game, I'm afraid.  This one involves the rapid naming
of kitchenware."  He was greeted with blank expressions.

"It's frightfully fun on a rainy day."

This time no one bothered to look surprised before they continued their
own discussions.

"So, Constance, will you?"

"Will I?"  she repeated.

"Will you marry me?"  he whispered.

"Please.  Just this one last time, I'm begging you to save me.  Rescue
me.  Marry me."

"Yes," she cried softly as he took her into his arms.

"Yes.  But, Joseph, you are wrong."

He pulled back and brushed his knuckle against the side of her face.
She closed her eyes and kissed his hand before she spoke.

"You are very wrong.  All along, it was you who saved me."

From the corner of her eye she saw the large wall mirror, and their
reflection--a man and a woman holding hands, their faces so close their
foreheads were very nearly touching, as if in a light kiss.

They looked so very right together, the couple in the reflection.  They
had always looked so very right.

The next day, everyone who had been at the McKenzies' dinner party the
previous evening was still buzzing with the news.  After all, it was
not every day that a family lost a governess and gained a wedding
invitation before the soup course was even ladled.

"And what time did he say he would be here?"  Lydia McKenzie asked.

Her mother smiled.

"Mr.  Smith said he would come to fetch Miss Lloyd at ten this morning,
and the clock has just struck ten.  I am sure he will be here at any
moment."

Lydia flung herself into the overstuffed chair by the window.

"Oh, Miss Lloyd, he is so handsome!  He looks just like a prince."

Constance laughed.

"Lydia, believe me, I have seen a prince, and, thank goodness, Joseph
looks nothing like one."

Mrs.  McKenzie picked up her needlepoint.

"I should be annoyed, Constance.  Really, you are by far the best
governess we have ever had."

"I am sorry, Mrs.  McKenzie.  I do feel terrible about this."

"Nonsense!  You are going to be a very happy wife and mother, I am
sure.  That is far better than being a governess.  And I should
know."

"Really?"  Constance asked.

"Really, Mother?"  Lydia swung her feet over the armrest.

"Really," she concluded.

"What do you think I was doing before I met the Colonel?  Oh, I hear a
carriage now."

"He is two minutes late."  Constance grinned, pushing in her hat pin.

"Discard him at once!"  Mrs.  McKenzie proclaimed.

Kathleen announced Joseph, and he entered the parlor, his face an ashen
white.

"Joseph, is anything wrong?"  Constance was immediately at his side,
and he raised his arm and encircled her in his embrace.  He did not
speak at first.

"Kathleen," ordered Mrs.  McKenzie.

"Please get Mr.  Smith a glass of water.  Or would you prefer
whisky?"

"Water."  The word barely escaped from his throat.

"Joseph, you're frightening me," Constance said, noticing the vein on
his forehead was pulsing.

"Are you agitated?"

He nodded, then reached into his frock coat and withdrew a telegram.

"Oh, no," said Lydia.

"Someone is dead.  That's what telegrams always mean.  Someone has died
suddenly, probably in a terrible accident or of a dreadful disease."

"Hush, Lydia," Mrs.  McKenzie replied.

"Read it," Joseph said, his voice slightly stronger.

"Go on, Constance.  Read it aloud."

"All right," she said uncertainly, her heart pounding.  "

"Mr.  Joseph Smith, care of the Union Club--'" "No.  Further down. Read
it aloud."

Her eyes scanned the yellow paper.

"Here we go ... "You are hereby notified of the death of the Duke of
Millington."  The Duke of Millington?  Joseph, do you know a Duke of
Millington?"

He shook his head and gratefully accepted the water from Kathleen.

"Go on," he said after a sip of water.

"Let's see, something about entails--or is it entrails?  This part is
smudged.  Oh, here it is ... 'notify Mr.  Joseph Smith of..  ."  I
can't pronounce this name."

"It's where I'm from in Wales, my hometown.  Go on."

"

"Mr.  Joseph Smith, of someplace unpronounceable in Wales, is the sole
heir to the title, the estate, and all the responsibilities and
privileges .. ."" Her voice trailed off.

"Joseph," she murmured.

"You're a duke."

"Kathleen!  Please fetch Miss Lloyd a glass of water," Mrs.  McKenzie
shouted.

Lydia alone glowed in jubilation.

"Wait until I tell Amy Van Der Bruen that my governess is a duchess!"

Constance blinked and reached for Joseph.

"I don't suppose this is another parlor game?"

He shook his head and was about to speak, when he saw her wobble, and
just before she hit the carpet, he managed to catch her.

"That's okay," announced Lydia with authority.

"Nobility always faints."  Then she giggled, watching as Joseph gently
stroked Constance's cheek, and as Kathleen brought the water and Mrs.
McKenzie shook her head in wonderment.

"Just wait until I tell Amy Van Der Bruen!"

St.  James's palace London, England Are you sure you can't go in with
me?"  Constance grasped her husband's hand, the three-foot train of her
sumptuous gown thrown over her other arm.

He smiled down at her, his Constance.

"No.  You must do this alone.  It's a small group, now that the Prince
of Wales has taken most of the court to India with him.  You will
survive.  God knows I did.  And I had to wear knee breeches and buckle
shoes."

"You looked adorable."

"I did, didn't I?"

"Just like "Little Boy Blue."" "If you're not careful," he warned,
"I'll take one of these feathers from your hair."  He lightly touched
the required plumes in the back of his wife's hair, where they were
fastened with a platinum comb he had given her that morning.

"Please do.  I'm molting."

The Duke of Millington's rich laugh echoed down the long gallery, where
future pillars of society waited to be presented to Queen Victoria.
They all turned and looked quizzically at the handsome young duke.  Who
was this man, they had all asked.  And how could he so easily glide
into society after being branded an outsider for so long?

He had been known as a hard worker, to be sure.  A quiet, industrious
young man working to better the lives of the less fortunate.  Yes,
there had been a bit of nastiness before, some confusion that had all
been resolved.  No one could remember just what had happened now.  It
had all been some error on the part of those unsavory London gazettes,
no doubt.

The main point was the duke's extraordinary sense of civic duty.  And
now he had redoubled those efforts, and joined forces with a most
unlikely individual, the second son of the duke of Ballsbridge, a newly
elected MP who was showing considerable fire and flair during his
debates.  Together they were becoming a powerful team, a political
force to be reckoned with.  Not to mention Lord Hastings had become
quite the find of the art world, his paintings accepted for the next
exhibit at the Royal Academy.

But it was the duke himself who fascinated everyone.  After the young
duke had married Constance in a quiet ceremony, everyone suddenly
wanted to befriend the striking couple, wondering why no one had ever
taken note of the extraordinarily good-looking man before he inherited
his title from a relative so distant, it took over a year for him to be
located.  Pushy mothers sighed over the lost chance, just as their
daughters sighed over the way the duke looked at his beautiful
duchess.

"Why must I wear a gown cut so low?"  Constance whispered.

"For the same reason I had to wear knee breeches and buckle shoes."  He
allowed his hand to rest for a moment on her bare shoulder, stroking
the slender line of her neck with his thumb.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she looked up at her husband.

"Joseph," she said softly.

"Constance."  His voice was ragged as he pretended to be examining the
clasp of her pearl dog-collar necklace.

"Do you think we would be missed?"

His lips began to touch her cheek, and she closed her eyes.

"Constance, Duchess of Millington!"  a voice boomed from a door at the
end of the picture gallery.

"The Duchess of Millington is going to be ill on her husband's shoes,"
she moaned.

"Don't you dare.  They are the first pair I have ever owned that fit,
and it took the wealthy wife of a duke to get them for me."

"Joseph, I really do believe I am going to be sick."

"There.  Just follow that gentleman in the silly satin outfit.  We've
gone through this before, Constance.  I'll be waiting for you at the
other end, and then we have a ball or two to attend."

"If I don't become ill first."

"Well, yes.  That would put a bit of gloom into our day."

"Joseph ..."

Very gently he tilted her chin towards his face, and for a moment he
just stared down at her.

"Just remember this.  I love you, Constance.  I did not really live
until I met you, until you saved me from a lonely existence with my
books and beakers.  I adore you with every ounce of my body, every
portion of my soul, and I always will."

Her eyes began to mist with tears, and he grinned.

"Now, go say hello to Vicky for me."  And she smiled as the
lord-in-waiting ushered her into the throne room.

"Don't get ill, don't trip on the train," she said in her mind, willing
herself to walk the long path to the Queen as gracefully as possible.
An attendant took her train and fanned it out behind her, and then she
approached the woman on the throne.

Her first thought was that this was a mistake.  The tiny, plump woman
wearing a black dress and a black and blue Garter Ribbon across her
chest could not possibly be the mighty Queen Victoria of England.  Upon
approaching, she was able to get a closer glimpse of the queen's facial
features.  And she realized that the Prince of Wales had similar
features, only exaggerated--the small eyes, the round face, the long
nose.

But the queen's coloring was lovely, as fresh and vibrant as a woman
half her age.

"Don't get ill, don't trip," Constance continued to chant to herself.

As she got closer, an attendant handed a card to the lord chamberlain,
who announced in a booming voice, "Constance, the Duchess of
Millington."

Now came the difficult part: the curtsy.  Constance sank as low as she
possibly could in front of the throne, her eyes lowered as she had been
instructed.

Slowly she reached her hand out for the Queen.  As practiced, the queen
would place her hand over Constance's ungloved one, and then Constance
would kiss the queen's hand.

Something was wrong.  The queen did not extend her hand to Constance.

If only Joseph was there, but he was not.

Hesitantly, worried about slipping to the floor if she remained in the
position for much longer, she glanced up at the queen.

Queen Victoria was smiling.

Never had Constance seen a smile so transform a face.  Instead of
looking distant and lofty, she was suddenly a woman one would want to
get to know, to share secrets with over a cup of tea.

"My good man Brown has told us of you."

"Your Majesty," was all Constance could say.

And then the queen leaned forward.

"Your Majesty," hissed the lord chamberlain urgently.

"Don't kiss her; she is not a real lady!"

"There you are wrong," the queen said loudly enough for the assembly to
hear.

"She most certainly is a lady."

With that, she kissed Constance on the forehead.

Constance blinked, the rest of the lords and ladies gasped.  A kiss was
only bestowed upon a fellow member of royalty, or a peer of noble
birth.

Somehow Constance managed to back out from the room without falling
over the train, without becoming ill, and without fainting.

As she exited, and the door to the throne room closed, a pair of arms
grasped her waist.

"Well?"  Joseph asked, twirling her to face him.

"She kissed me!"

Joseph smiled.

"Of course she did.  She is a wise woman."  With his broad back he
shielded her from the others waiting in the gallery.

"I hope that means you will continue to accept my kisses, now that you
have been kissed by royalty."

"Oh, Joseph," she sighed against his chest.

"It's over."

By that afternoon, the rumor had already made the rounds of all the
men's clubs in London.  The Duke of Millington had been seen kissing
his wife behind a potted palm just moments after she had been presented
to Queen Victoria.  The tale prompted sharp comments and not a few fast
remarks, but most just smiled when they heard the story.

One man, upon hearing the gossip recounted, smiled rather wistfully,
and returned alone to his home on Downing Street.

The orchestra began another tune, and the dancers began to swirl on the
polished marble floor.  The man stood beside a white chair, where a
woman of extraordinary beauty was seated.  He held out his hand to her,
and she shook her head.

"Your grace, I do not know if I can dance another waltz with you.  It
would be most improper."

"Hang it all, Constance!  This is marvelous!"

"I thought you hated to dance."

"But Constance," the Duke of Millington urged.

"You love to dance."

"Joseph, it is almost four in the morning, this is the fifth ball we
have been to, and I will personally murder every Strauss in Vienna if I
have to dance another waltz."

"Come."  He held out his hand, and she smiled up at him before
accepting.

Among the other dancers were Philip and Viola, who was hiding her yawn
behind her fan, and Cavendish and Abigail.  Constance thought it was
amazing, the transformation in everyone, especially Dishy and Abigail.
And even Philip's mother seemed content at last, her two sons married
and her youngest making a real success of his life.  The last time she
had seen the duchess, the older woman had been very close to friendly,
even laughing about some of the events that had seemed so dire the year
before.

Joseph had laughed, and said that she will notice that even the most
disagreeable people will suddenly be pleasant in front of a wealthy
woman with a title.  It took Constance a moment to realize that he had
been referring to her.

Another waltzing couple passed, and the female smiled at Constance.
Harriet Whitestone looked lovely that evening, dancing with the gallant
officer.  Ever since she had been welcomed into London society as the
Duchess of Millington's close friend, she had seldom spent a lonely
evening at home with her mending and poetry.

"Joseph," Constance asked, enjoying the feel of his shoulder beneath
her palm.

"There is something I've been meaning to ask you."

"The answer is no."

"Excuse me?"

"You were going to ask me if I ever took dancing lessons, and the
answer is no.  I have natural grace."

The dimple appeared below her mouth as she smiled.

"You dance beautifully, and you know it.  No, I wanted to ask you about
the note you sent with my desk."

He frowned, his amber eyes focused on her face.

"Do you mean the five-pound note?"

"No.  I assumed you had written something personal.  After all, you
took the trouble to mend my mother's desk."

"My God, Constance, you're blushing!"

"Didn't you write some sort of, well, love note?  It vanished.  But
what did it say?"

"There was no love note.  I was making good the bet, do you remember?
When I was escorting, or attempting to escort you to Hastings House, we
bet five pounds that we would find a place within an hour.  I lost the
bet, and so I paid you."

"No.  There had to be more.  You wouldn't have just sent the desk with
no note.  If I had only known before everything, if I hadn't believed
Brown, well, things may have gone more smoothly.  Don't you see?
Please, Joseph, what did you write?"

An expression crossed his face that made him look like a pirate about
to loot a treasure chest.

"I do not remember."

"You do!  Tell me, Joseph."

"I don't know what you're talking about, woman."

"Don't you try your John Brown act out on me.  Just confess, what was
in the note?"

"In all honesty, I think I wrapped the fiver in a piece of paper with
an old dye formula.  What do you think was in the note?"

"I don't know."  She looked beyond her husband, imagining what wondrous
words he may have penned to her, inspired by his passion.

"Perhaps that you love me.  That I should not follow you, for you would
rather die yourself that have me in any sort of peril.  That you would
give anything you owned for a few moments in my presence."

"Then that was what I must have said, my love."  Slowly he led her from
the dance floor.

"Shall we go home?"

"Mmm," she sighed, her head against his shoulder.

He collected her wrap and his walking stick.  Constance insisted that
no self-respecting duke would ever leave his home without a walking
stick, so he spent the day leaving it at clubs and Parliament and his
own offices.

"Joseph, what was really in that note?"

"Honestly?"

She nodded.

"It was a five-pound note wrapped in a formula for synthetic dye.  I
jotted it down from a German textbook."

"Why did you send me a formula for dye?"

"I always reuse paper.  The formula was no good-seeped like mad.  I
used it to wrap the five-pound note in.  Did you ever get the fiver, by
the way?"

"No."

"Blast.  No wonder Hastings is so rich, ekes it out five pounds at a
time."

"Joseph?"

"Yes?"

"The moment we get into the carriage, will you do me a favor?"

"Of course."

"Will you kiss me?"

He paused on the steps and turned to his wife.

"Have I told you that I adore you?"

"And I adore you," she said, barely able to draw breath.

"Home," he said at last.

"Let us go home."  The next morning, the gossips had yet another tale
about the Duke and Duchess of Millington.  They were seen kissing on
the steps after the Barrington House ball.  It was the one story that
everyone, no matter how skeptical, chose to believe.

author's note Queen Victoria did have a Highland servant by the name of
John Brown.  He first caught her attention, and that of her husband,
Prince Albert, in the early 1850s, when he was a young gillie at
Balmoral.  Soon he became indispensable on their visits to Scotland,
and after Albert's death in 1861, he became indispensable to the
grieving queen.

John Brown was both hated and loved.  The Prince of Wales could not
stand the man who had once boxed his ears and who had won the complete
respect of the queen.  In other ways, Brown seemed to easily gain
everything the prince so bitterly lacked.  John Brown was handsome, the
Prince of Wales was not.  John Brown was consulted in state matters,
the prince was never permitted to so much as glance at an official
document.  John Brown was allowed almost complete access to the queen.
The queen frequently avoided the prince, and was often unable to
tolerate being in the same room with her eldest son.  She always blamed
Albert's death on Prince Edward.  It was while attempting to straighten
out one of the prince's scandalous affairs that Albert caught the fever
that eventually killed him.  Often, the prince's servants would get
into fights with the Highlander and his men, sometimes over trivial
matters, other times over more important issues.

There were rumors that Victoria had married John Brown, and "The
Empress Brown" pamphlet appeared, published anonymously, purporting to
detail the real power on the throne.  Their suspected romance also
proved to be an excellent and frequent target for the popular humor
magazines Punch and Tomahawk, especially in the late 1860s.  One issue
of Punch featured a mock court circular, reporting the noteworthy news
from Balmoral:

Mr.  John Brown walked on the slopes.

He subsequently partook of a haggis.

In the evening Mr.  John Brown was pleased to listen to a bagpipe.  Mr.
John Brown retired early.

Although today it seems silly, the John Brown affair created a serious
threat to the monarchy, still in a precarious position after the
freewheeling Hanoverian kings.  Eventually the furore passed, but it
took the near-fatal illness of the Prince of Wales, ten years to the
day after the death of his father, to rally popular support around the
queen and her family once more.

John Brown was a loyal servant, that cannot be denied.  But because of
his attractive appearance as a youth, and the queen being widowed at 
such a young age, rumors were bound to circulate.
Debate still rages as to whether there was anything more than a deep
friendship between the two, although it does seem a bit far-fetched to
dub Brown "Rasputin in a kilt," as some historians do.

Whatever existed between the queen and her gillie, it will never be
ours to know.  She mourned his death as she did her husband's, for the
rest of her long life.  And when she finally died, one of the new
king's first acts was to destroy all busts of Brown, burn his
photographs, and have Brown's apartment at Windsor turned into a
billiard room.  At the time, he explained to those who questioned his
actions that Brown had once boxed his ears.  Clearly, the hatred ran
much deeper than the oft-repeated boyhood story.  Although there is
absolutely no record of him ever plotting against Brown, it seems that
if the prince had ever happened to hear of plans to do Brown any harm,
he would likely have made little effort to stop the damage.  Queen
Victoria had a great appreciation of male beauty.  And from looking at
a photograph of a young John Brown, strapping in his kilt, his hair
wild and his arms and legs thick with muscles, all one can say is ...
who can blame her?