Chapter 1,
in which the Duchess has her day
It
is hard to stop a thought. It is like trying to stop the wind.
Her
feet dangled over the dark water. Her toes extended toward its algae-crusted
depths. April was cold, but the
waters were high. Rhema’s fingers fastened themselves to the coarse wood of the
walking bridge on which she sat.
She leaned out, just enough to see a face reflected on the surface of
the moat. The face didn’t look like her own. This face looked older.
Thoughts
of the kind that shouldn’t be trusted crept continuously across Rhema’s
mind. She had never expected life
to be easy, but she had also never expected to be so alone. She was empty. She
was a ghost.
How
had it come to this?
“Madame,”
said Mr. Hodgins from the castle side of the bridge. He leaned precariously
toward her, as if expecting her to fall at any moment. Two other watchmen stood
behind him, ready to run or leap, whatever was needed.
“What
is it, Mr. Hodgins?” asked Rhema.
“Madame,
I must entreat you to come away from the edge.” Mr. Hodgins inched onto the
little bridge.
“I
am quite safe, I assure you,” said Rhema. “I do not plan on jumping, if that is
what you think.”
“I
do not make judgments, Madame de Frees, but it would be better if you came away
from the moat.”
“There
are many things that would be better, Mr. Hodgins.”
The
reflection below Rhema had eyes marred with red veins, inflamed eyelids, and a
running nose. She wiped her face with her sleeve. Her handkerchief was gone,
tossed into the abyss.
“Today
should have been our anniversary. Four years,” said Rhema.
Mr.
Hodgins rested his hand on her shoulder.
“I
understand, Lady.”
Rhema
picked a blade of grass and ripped it in two along its crease.
“Shall
we go inside?” asked Mr. Hodgins. “It is getting cool.”
“I
suppose,” said Rhema, looking toward the main palace bridge. “If I hear but the
hoofbeat of the Duchess’s carriage, I may reconsider what I said about throwing
myself in.”
“Surely
you would not, my ladyship.”
“Of
course not. I should throw her in instead.”
“Now
that would be a sight,” said Mr. Hodgins.
“Do you suppose she would sink or float?” said Rhema. “All that material.... she may become buoyant. Then again, I should think her jewels would weigh her down.”
“Do you suppose she would sink or float?” said Rhema. “All that material.... she may become buoyant. Then again, I should think her jewels would weigh her down.”
“In
that case, My Lady, I suppose she would bob up and down in the water like a
barrel.”
“So
she does serve a use after all! I wonder what sort of fish we could catch with
her.”
They
had a laugh about this, and Mr. Hodgins cajoled her into having lunch with him
and the other watchmen, like they did years ago during another lonely wait.
They were drinking tea and playing cards by the time the Duchess’s carriage
rolled up to the palace gate.
The
Duchess of Devon was unhappy. That much was evident. Whenever she was alone,
her face contorted into a sort of sneer, the sort of sneer a lady of her rank
adopts when confronted with an unwanted smell or when a beggar approaches her
on the street. She smiled beautifully at all she met, but that did not change
the fact that her face, in its natural shape, relaxed into a sneer. This also
did not change that that the same sneer had not existed the last time the
Duchess had visited Gallia.
“We
would like to keep the ceremony private, if we can,” said King Harold to her as
they met in his office. Annette’s eyes lifted in a disapproving glare. “The
divorce was a quiet one, and so we would also like to keep this ceremony as
simple as possible.”
Annette
snapped her head in Bastion’s direction, searching for a conciliatory
disapproval. His face remained stoic. His hand, resting on the arm of his
chair, clenched in a half fist. She placed her fair hand over his.
“Bastion,”
crooned Annette in her seductive, French tone. “Tell him it is not fair.”
Bastion
slid his hand out from under hers. “Life is not fair,” he said softly to her.
Then looking up at his father, he said, “Let her do whatever she wants. I do
not care.”
“Hmph!”
groaned Annette. She paid her respect to the king and tromped out of the room.
“That
went well, I think,” said Bastion. He slouched in his chair as soon as he was
alone with his father.
“That
was insolent, disrespectful, and immature. You will apologize to Her Grace
post-haste,” said Harold. His face grew large with anger.
“Of
course, Your Majesty.” Bastion half-stood, then sat down again. “Why?”
“My
son, the prince, would know. Have you
forgotten yourself completely?”
“No,
father. I remember.”
Bastion
stood. The line of his perfect posture loomed over the sitting king.
“For
Gallia,” said Bastion flatly. He strode quietly out of the room.
Going
round the door he literally bumped into Rhema. She stumbled back from him. Her
eyes leaped with sorrow and desire. He wanted to take her into his arms. He
wanted to kiss her. He wanted to tell her that everything was going to be okay.
He could hardly think how to open his mouth without his longing for the woman
he still considered to be his wife pouring out.
Mr.
Arnold, the standing guard outside the king’s door, flicked his eyes back and
forth between them, pretending not to be curious. The passion between the
prince and the baroness was palpable.
“My
Lord,” she said, bobbing in a curtsey.
“My
Lady,” he returned.
Bastion
tipped his hat to Rhema and continued down the hall as quickly as he could.
Rhema watched after him as he left. Her
determination doubled up inside of her. She turned on Mr. Arnold.
“Well?”
she said.
Mr.
Arnold knocked on the king’s door.
“Who
is it?” grumbled Harold from inside.
“It
is Her Highness, the Princess van—“ started Mr. Arnold. “The Baroness de Frees
requests an audience with Your Majesty.”
“It
is not a good time,” said Harold.
Rhema
yelled through the door, “Your Majesty, I beg you.
I will not be long.”
Mr.
Arnold brandished his cane as if to use it as a weapon. “You
do not speak to His Majesty unless he summons you,” he whispered harshly.
“Oh,
let her in, Mr. Arnold!” said Harold.
Rhema
threw back her head at Mr. Arnold. He lowered his stick, scowled, and swung
open the door. Rhema fell inside.
“What
is it, my dear? Be quick about it,” said Harold, rubbing his forehead and
looking at the enormous stack of papers before him.
“Your
Majesty.... Harry, I have come to appeal for the restoration of my marriage.”
Rhema stood straight as a scepter, fists clenched on either side.
“Madame
de Frees, we have heard these arguments already. The process is long done.
There are no more decisions to be made. Do you honestly expect me to send the
Duchess away after she has traveled so far? Do you expect me to rescind the
promises we made to the government of Freesia?”
“Yes,”
said Rhema.
“What
appeal could you possibly add to all that has already been said on the matter?”
“An
appeal of the heart.”
Harold
sighed and ran his thick hand over the back of his head in much the same way
Bastion did when he was troubled.
“That
I have heard as well and not only from you.”
“Then
for my sake, and for the sake of your son, please reconsider. There are alternatives.
I do not need my title restored. I am satisfied as a baroness, or less, if you
prefer. But I cannot fathom giving up my title as Bastion’s wife.”
“Believe
it or not, I have always considered your welfare, girl. Even if you could
conceive another child, it is likely that it would kill you. Do you place no
value on your life?”
Rhema
fumbled with the folds on the side of her skirt as she thought. She greatly
feared another pregnancy. The memory of her miscarriages still gave her
sleepless nights. But her fear of never again being with Bastion was greater.
“What
if I did not have to conceive.”
“And
leave my kingdom heirless?”
“There
are heirs.... cousins, surely.”
“Cousins?
Who are these cousins of which you speak, you who are suddenly such an expert
on our affairs? You know very well that after Bastion, I have no heirs. After
Bastion, next in line would be Freddie, and the world knows that Freddie does
not like women. Who then? Brys and whatever bastards he may have already
conceived? I love the man like a brother, but if he had his way, he would throw
this empire to the dogs of the republic, and we can say goodbye forever to the
House van Sever and our noble heritage.”
He
paused in his speech. Rhema tried to open her mouth to respond, but he
continued, “And let’s not forget the VanGalls! I have no doubt there is a
reason they have been sniffing round your skirts. If we show any signs of
weakness, I should not be surprised to have a coup on my hands. They’ll sweep the monarchy out from
under me just as my ancestors did to theirs back in their time.”
“Perhaps
it would not be such a bad idea to institute the election of kings,” said
Rhema, forgetting momentarily who it was to whom she spoke.
King
Harold’s entire face turned red as if he were a volcano holding in its
eruption. He said nothing for a minute, nor did he need to. Rhema shrank.
“Are
you mad or has Brys been whispering in your ears?” said Harold in a
frighteningly contained tone. “We are a sovereign nation, not some
conglomeration of pencil pushers and money counters. You would understand that
if you were a true Gall.”
The
insult struck Rhema to the heart. She made herself tall, squinted her eyes, and
glared at him in the way only a woman scorned can do.
“This
conversation is over,” said Harold.
Rhema
turned on her heels and left. She knew it would be foolish to strike up an
animosity with the king, especially when only he had the power to restore her
happiness. She had delivered her message. All that was left was time and luck.
It would have to suffice.
