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We head down a long hallway now, and I catch a whiff of beef and gravy and fresh-baked bread. My stomach gurgles, but even hunger can’t make my feet move any faster toward the inevitable cold war in the dining room. Kit doesn’t seem especially eager to arrive, either, and I peer up at him, searching his grim expression for an explanation I know won’t be there.
“Are you okay?” I say, and he blinks, as if I’ve snapped him out of a trance.
“Better than okay,” he promises, ducking his head to kiss me again. “I haven’t been this happy in months.”
He doesn’t look happy, though, not with the way his brow is slightly furrowed and his eyes look like they’re in shadow. I hug his arm, but before I can press, Constance’s sharp voice filters through a set of open double doors just down the corridor.
“…stop this foolishness at once.” Somehow she sounds even more deadly than she looked in the entrance hall, and I fight the urge to drag Kit back the way we came. “I’ve no idea what you two expect will come of this. Certainly nothing good.”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business, Mother.” Nicholas’s voice isn’t nearly as loud, but it’s steady and unwavering, and it’s clear this isn’t the first time my uncle’s had to deal with her demands.
“I’m the head of this family,” she snaps. “That makes it entirely my business.”
Kit and I stop at the doorway in time to see Helene’s eyebrows rise so high they nearly touch her hairline. Though she and Nicholas are the only people seated at the long mahogany table, which is laden with crystal glasses, fine china, and festive decorations, the pair of them are practically perched on each other’s laps. Constance stands stiffly near one of the windows, and I’m suddenly positive that she walked in on a scene she wasn’t prepared for. Because she didn’t know about their affair.
“On the contrary,” says Helene, her voice as cool as the icy-blue walls, “Alexander is the head of this family now. And he’s perfectly content with the situation.”
Constance scoffs. “Alexander is the reason public opinion of the monarchy has plummeted, with the consequences of his actions still ricocheting through the headlines. He’s already made us a laughingstock, and this”—she gestures toward Helene and Nicholas—“this will only further ensure our demise—”
“Demise, Mother?” says someone new over my shoulder. “Isn’t that a trifle dramatic?”
I recognize my father’s voice instantly, but when I twist around, I freeze, my heart in my throat. Lingering behind me in a cozy red sweater is Alexander, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him in months. But he’s not alone.
Standing to his right in the hallway, her auburn curls loose and her cheeks still pink from the December chill, is my mother.
CHAPTER SIX
The past cannot be cured.
—Queen Elizabeth (b. 1533, r. 1558–1603)
MY MOM IS HERE.
In England.
At Sandringham.
For Christmas.
These are the only coherent words my mind can form as I launch myself toward her, and she catches me in a tight hug. She feels stronger than the last time I saw her back in June, and I inhale her scent, my thoughts reeling.
My mom is here. In England. At Sandringham. For Christmas.
And so are Constance and Helene.
A knot of fear forms in the pit of my stomach, and I pull away enough to look at her. “What are you doing here?” I manage, my voice already ragged. “I thought you were staying in Virginia.”
“We wanted to surprise you, Evie,” she says, but she must sense my apprehension, because she peers at me uncertainly. “It’s a good surprise, right?”
“The best,” I say, and it is. I haven’t spent Christmas with her since I was ten years old. But I can feel the white-hot stares watching us from the dining room, and all I can think about is how everyone at Sandringham knows the darkest details of the worst day of her life. And I’m absolutely sure some of them won’t hesitate to use them against her.
“Ah, the epitome of propriety has arrived at last,” says Helene from her seat at the table. “And I see he’s brought a guest.”
My mother releases me and turns her attention to the dining room, though her hand settles on my back, as if she isn’t entirely ready to let go. While Helene looks impossibly smug as she leans even closer to Nicholas, Constance stands frozen beside the velvet curtains, seemingly rendered speechless by Alexander’s audacity. That, at least, is one thing we have in common.
“Hello, Helene,” says my mother as she steps into the room with my father at her side, both of them either oblivious to Constance or pointedly ignoring her. “It’s good to see you.”
“Likewise,” says Helene, her honeyed voice oozing with insincerity. “You look well, Laura.”
