The Replacement Princess Page 2

  I’d heard of wild Scottish celebrations, and the dances were … robust, to say the very least. All required hand-holding. And not a sedate, palm-to-palm touch like I was accustomed to.

  Hands were grasped, and my arm was gripped at several points, our arms linking at the elbows. I was glad I was surrounded by my ladies, so no charge of impropriety could be levelled against me. It seemed the Scots were remarkably unrestrained.

  At the end of that first dance I was left gasping for breath, my chest heaving. I was sure my face must be bright red. McAllister’s certainly was, and all my ladies looked to be glowing.

  I was also sure my eyes were gleaming. I’d never tried ceilidh dancing before, but just that one taste was enough to know I loved it.

  *

  Other advisers were recruited and more classes added to my daily schedule. I was required to learn Scottish geography and history, as well as the ancestry of the royal family. A priest was engaged to introduce me to the religion I was expected to embrace. I found myself looking forward to my dancing classes as a pleasant respite.

  So much so, that I was initially more concerned than affronted when McAllister failed to attend one afternoon two months later. I waited five minutes. No McAllister, nor any apology or explanation.

  “Should I send someone to check his room?” Clem suggested.

  “I will do it.” I rang for a footman. He returned five minutes later with the information that his rooms were empty and no sign of the man.

  Irritation flared through me. You did not keep a princess waiting. Not if you were the younger son of an insignificant Scottish duke. I waved a hand at my ladies, who were watching me for a sign of how to react. I forced a smile of indifference. “No matter. Clearly the man cannot read a clock face. You are dismissed. I shall go for a walk.”

  Two of my ladies trailed after me as I strode across the palace lawns, annoyance lending me speed. I forced myself to slow, lest I give life to gossip that I was upset by McAllister’s rudeness. I could expect no more of a Scotsman, after all.

  I was rounding the fountain ten minutes later when the sound of frantic footsteps scratching through the gravel made me turn. McAllister, red-faced and long-limbed, was running towards me. I stopped where I was, lifting my chin so I could stare him down.

  I wanted to remain silent, so he would have to explain himself, but I couldn’t resist. As he skidded to a halt before me, I snapped, “Is this how the court behaves in Scotland? I should like to be forewarned if I must tolerate rudeness.”

  Shoulders heaving as he dragged in breath, he dropped to one knee before me, head bowed. “Forgive me, my lady princess.”

  He fell silent then. I wanted to kick him; he’d placed himself ideally close to my feet. I wanted to shake an explanation from him. I wanted to know what was more important than myself. So I was going to have to talk to him. “Do you have an explanation for your absence?” I demanded coldly.

  He glanced up. His hair was longer, I noticed. He was allowing it to grow in the English fashion, leaving his Scottish roots behind. “I tender my humblest apologies, your Highness,” he said, before returning his gaze to the gravel beneath our feet.

  I kept my tone cold. “That is an apology. I requested an explanation.”

  “You’ll laugh,” he said, tone defensive.

  My anger ebbed. Now, I was more curious than anything. “I am not given to levity.”

  “I got lost,” he admitted.

  I waited, but that seemed to be it. “Lost?” He’d been here for two months now. “The palace isn’t that big. And the footmen will guide you.”

  “I wasn’t in the palace.”

  Now I was confused. “Where were you?” He was still craning up at me. I waved a hand impatiently. “Oh, stand up, for goodness’ sake!”

  He did so, dusting off his knees – he had also adopted English fashions, I was pleased to see. “I went into the city.”

  “And you got lost?” My confusion increased. “Did your driver not know the way?”

  His forehead creased. “My driver?”

  “The driver of the carriage you were in.”

  “I didn’t take a carriage.” He sounded surprised at the idea. “I walked.”

  “You walked? Into the city? Whatever for?” I glanced instinctively in that direction, but all I could see past the palace railings was the green of Hyde Park. I only ever passed through them in a chauffeur-driven carriage; and rarely at that. Walking. Through the city. Alone.

  “I wanted to see the Thames.”

  “Why?” It was a river. They had those in Scotland; I knew all about the country’s geography now.

  “We’re surrounded by water at home. I miss it.” I caught the expression in his eyes. This was where he’d expected my laughter. I swallowed. I hoped I wasn’t so unkind as to laugh at him for missing home. My throat dried. In a year and a half’s time it would be me in a foreign place, missing what I’d left behind. I sank onto the edge of the fountain. McAllister loomed over me. “Sit. Please.”

  He obeyed. My ladies hovered some way away.

  “What is your home like?” Tiree. I didn’t remember seeing it marked on any of the maps. “Is Tiree quite a small town?”

  “It’s an island. Wild and beautiful.” His eyes shone. His tone vibrated with love.

  “Tell me about it.”

  So he did. He told me about the land, and the farmers raising sheep tough enough to survive the wind and the sea spray, and cattle whose meat was prized across the country. He told me about the endless sky that stretched horizon-to-horizon. He told me how the blue sea met white beaches when the sun shone, and about the fishermen who took their boats out in all weathers. He told me about the seals that could be seen in the water, and sometimes on the rocks, bathing in the sun. He told me about the sea and its ever-changing moods and colours. He told me about the lighthouse his father planned, to stop ships dashing on the rocks surrounding the island, and how it could become a reality now there was to be peace.

  I saw it all in my mind. And for the first time, I wanted to see Scotland for real. “I’m not surprised you miss it. It sounds beautiful.”

  “It is. I hope you might see it one day.”

  I hoped so, too. But the choice wouldn’t be mine. I dragged my mind back from my uncertain future. “I don’t think a view of the Thames would make a satisfactory replacement for that.”

  “It’s filthy!” He spoke with the injured tone of someone who’d been promised gold and given coal instead. “They said it was tidal – I thought I’d be able to see the sea!”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “The sea is miles away from here!”

  “Aye, I know that now!” He was laughing, too. Then he sobered. “And I insulted you by missing our lesson. I am truly sorry.”

  “No matter.” I was sure I’d gained more than I’d lost. I stood and dusted off my skirts. My ladies drifted closer, sensing that my conversation was coming to an end. “I am glad we could talk.”

  He rose, too, and bowed. “As am I, Princess.”

  “Thank you for telling me about your home.”

  He bowed again. I walked towards the palace, but in my head I saw a Scottish island and the wild sea. In my head, the country of my future started to be real, instead of just a picture on a map.

  *

  For my seventeenth birthday, I received another letter from Prince James. There were more formal words, and the missive was accompanied by a gift. A single red rose, beautiful and fresh despite its journey. Then I picked it up and realised it was no flower. Carved from wood and painted with exquisite detail to mimic the real thing, it had fooled me until I touched it.

  It was beautiful. And yet … impersonal.

  I found myself asking McAllister to stay for tea after our next lesson.

  “What is the prince like? Do you know?”

  “I have met him,” McAllister told me, his tone warning that he didn’t have much to confide.

  I sighed and sipped at my
tea. I didn’t want to get a reputation as a gossip before I had even crossed the border. I sought for something it would be seemly for me to show curiosity about. “What of Edinburgh, then? Do you know Edinburgh at all?” If I couldn’t find out more about the people, I would learn about the places, at least.

  McAllister smiled. “We spend our winters in the capital most years. I love Christmas in Edinburgh.”

  How strange to hear the word ‘capital’ and know it didn’t mean London. “Tell me about that.”

  He painted pictures with his words, and I saw the dark granite of the castle on the hillside, and the cobbled Royal Mile that led down the hill from the castle to the royal palace of Holyrood, my future home. I walked along the lamp-decked winter-dark streets with him, and paused to buy roasted chestnuts from the street sellers. By the time we’d finished our tea, I felt as though I were familiar with the place; as though I would recognise it like an old friend when I arrived.

  I watched McAllister depart my rooms. My opinion of him had changed greatly since he’d arrived with his visible knees and pale skin. He was … well, a friend wasn’t the correct term. Perhaps there wasn’t a word for what he was to me. He was … a bridge, offering me a link to Scotland. A bridge that provided a glimpse of my future, making it less alien and scary. Making it all seem … possible.

  *

  My marriage was just five months away when the epidemic began.

  Typhoid broke out in the city, a miasma rising from the river. It was confined to the docks to begin with. Mama and my aunts and uncles suggested we move to the country until the danger was past. Papa refused. My aunts and uncles left for their country houses, as did most of my ladies. Clementine was called away to join her parents at the coast.

  Even as the palace echoed hollowly, we remained. Papa never changed his mind about anything; it was our duty to show the city and the country that we were uncowed.

  Simon was the first to grow sick. Even then, Papa would not be swayed. The best doctors were engaged and Mama herself nursed him. And he pulled through.

  We tried not to be triumphant, not when other families in the city were less fortunate, but the sense of relief was palpable.

  One afternoon, McAllister found me wandering the portrait gallery, with nothing to do now Mama didn’t require my assistance. “Can I offer another lesson?” he suggested.

  “That would not be fitting.” I longed to dance again, but such signs of levity weren’t appropriate. Not yet.

  “Perhaps a walk?”

  I glanced along the gallery that smelled of carbolic, then accepted McAllister’s proffered escort. “That would be a pleasure.” As would breathing fresh air and seeing the sun. We walked outside and started across the lawns behind the palace.

  “Don’t you want to go home?” I asked McAllister. Now I thought about it, I was surprised his family had allowed him to stay while sickness occupied London.

  “I can’t go home.” His matter-of-fact tone was at odds with my surprise. He explained. “I may return home when I have finished escorting Princess Myrtle to her husband at Holyrood House. Until then, I have a job to do.”

  “Don’t they care that you might fall ill?”

  “They have other sons if I do.”

  My breath was stolen by that calm response. “I’m sorry,” I said at last.

  McAllister turned in surprise. “What are you sorry for? It’s not as though they are hoping I die. They just won’t squander this opportunity.”

  My face must have betrayed my confusion. He continued, “My parents wished to gain favour with the king. They put me forward for the role here. If I go home they may never get another chance. And it’s not as though I mind.” He looked at me and smiled. “I’d stay forever if I could.”

  His words prompted a warm glow in the pit of my stomach. “I’m glad you’re here.” I tried to make the words formal. “I welcome your company.”

  He inclined his head. “I am delighted to be of service, your Highness. Now, and in the future.”

  I smiled. He was, of course, currying favour with his queen-to-be, but with such charm that I couldn’t object. And he was right: maybe I’d need him when I arrived in Edinburgh. I was pleased to think that my new life in Scotland might include gains, as well as losses. There were now nineteen short weeks until I would leave England. For the first time, I looked at that event with anticipation as well as trepidation.

  *

  Harry fell ill the following morning. Mama resumed her nursing duties, but he was no better two days later when Papa also fell ill. I was told to keep away, but what was I supposed to do? I tried to read, and tried to wait patiently, and mostly paced. They had the best doctors, as well as everything Mama could do for them, but that didn’t change the outcome.

  They died within a day of each other, my stern father and my beautiful, adored older brother, lost in the space of two days.

  It was hard to believe, and Mama spent a week walking around the palace as though in a dream, while the Lord Chamberlain made arrangements around us. Oddly enough, it was only when her secretary, Lord Padry, also succumbed to the disease that Mama showed any emotion. I walked in on her in her rooms, a volume of poetry open on her lap while tears poured down her cheeks and dripped onto the pages of the book.

  I crouched beside her, resting my head on her lap, my hand curling around hers on the book. “I’m sorry,” I murmured.

  She stroked my hair the way she hadn’t done for years, since I was a very small girl. “So am I, Myrtle.” I heard her shuddering breaths and a single tear landed on my shoulder. Then she stood up. “But sorry doesn’t change matters.”

  She fetched a pair of shears from her work basket. For a moment I was paralysed with fear of what she might do. Without a word she lifted her lace cap from her hair, uncoiled the rope of brown hair threaded through with grey and used the shears to cut through it, what had been her crowning glory falling to the floor. She raised her other hand to touch the shorn strands and nodded satisfaction that her grief was now plain for all to see.

  I feared she might expect the same of me, but she simply put the shears back, wiped her tears, and went to speak with the Lord Chamberlain.

  *

  Now it had taken who it wanted, the disease seemed to have run its course. People drifted back to court to stand huddled in corners, dressed in black. Mama’s expression of grief became a fashion. Within a week both ladies and men all had shorn heads. McAllister, whose hair was now down to his ears, once again stood out as different.

  As did I.

  I ignored the looks that followed me, glad no one had the temerity to tell me to my face that I should cut my hair to express my mourning. I murmured to my companions that I didn’t wish to offend my future husband with so radical a change of appearance, but that wasn’t the truth. I mourned them, of course I did. But what good could it do for me to make myself ugly? It wouldn’t make Papa and Harry any less dead. I was my own person, and I would make my own choices where fate allowed.

  *

  Simon was king now. But at twelve he was far too young to rule. Duke Murgatroyd was appointed regent, along with my mother. I wished my other uncle had been given the role, but no one asked my opinion in the matter.

  Murgatroyd gained Mama’s approval immediately by suggesting a scheme of works to create a reservoir from the lake in Hyde Park, with the water to be cleaned and then pumped into all the houses in the city. Mama agreed immediately. The plan was that it would prevent the summer’s tragedy from happening again. I only wished he’d suggested it a year ago. But perhaps he had and Papa had rejected the idea. He was a man whose mind was – had been – very hard to change.

  With funerals so recent, Simon’s coronation was a low-key affair. He repeated the words he’d been coached to say, chubby fingers gripping the orb and sceptre hard. He was crowned, and after that he returned to the palace. Aside from the fact that he and Mama moved into different suites, nothing else seemed to change.

  Murgatr
oyd was given rooms in the palace, and I was relieved when he didn’t use them, preferring his own house close by in the city. That wasn’t far enough away for my liking.

  I still didn’t trust him. I was half-afraid that he would change the arrangement with the Scots, but as Mama had said, it was a binding agreement and there was nothing to be done. There was nothing to keep me in England now, and a part of me hoped the Scots would call for me to go to them early, away from this dismal, mourning court. But they gave no indication of desiring to bring the arrangement forward. They couldn’t change Prince James’s age just by wanting to, and that was the day we were all working towards.

  Until then, I spent as much time as possible in my rooms with my ladies and my tutors, learning about Scotland and wishing I could dance, something impossible while the country was in mourning. The last four months of my life in London crawled past, and then the final week raced.

  I found myself alone in my rooms the night before I was due to leave, the walls bared of everything that would be taken with me, which had been removed and packed ready for the journey.

  I had retired early, pleading a headache, although I was not in the least unwell. If I remained in my stuffy room, however, I was sure I would gain a migraine. I hurried to the portrait gallery. The windows there gave the best view to the gardens behind the palace. There was a full moon, and the sense of peace I gained from the company of the portraits made my shoulders relax as I leaned against the casement and stared at the gardens below.

  The sound of a throat being cleared made me turn.

  McAllister was standing at the end of the room. “Your Highness,” he said, with a perfect bow. As he straightened, I reflected that life in London had suited him. He had grown into himself, his shoulders broadening to suit his height and his hollowed cheeks filling out. Of course, having a decent head of hair helped matters, too.

  He crossed the floor to stand in front of me, extending a hand. “I was hoping to find you before you retired,” he said. “Will you come with me?” When I didn’t move, he reached for my fingers. I didn’t pull away. His hand was warm against mine. “I want to show you something. If you have time, Princess.” He dropped my hand and stood straight, inclining his head in a respectful bow. I wished he hadn’t let go.