Page 103 of The Heir
Do you know what they’ve done? Would you care if you did know? Would you help? Did you help?
“Have you . . . have you heard anything from Liza?”
“Mmm? Oh, yes. Did I not tell you? I had a letter just yesterday. It’s here somewhere.” She looked helplessly at the mass of unanswered correspondence spread out across her desk.
“What did she say?” asked Jane.
“As I recall, she says she’s having a marvelous time and that Miss Schumann has invited her to stay a week longer.” Mama sighed. “Do you know this disagreement of yours may turn out to be a blessing, Jane. Without your sister, I have no help at all. I shall drown from all there is to do. So, I shall be counting on you.” Mama turned back to her winnings. “Now, run along, there’s a good girl. We’ll talk at supper.”
Jane did as she was told. She returned to her empty rooms and sat on the chaise and stared out the window. Slowly, awkwardly, with no one to see or to stop her, Jane began to cry.
The princess had said they couldn’t guess what had happened. They had to know. That they couldn’t panic until they knew. Jane’s fear had decided it was not willing to wait.
She was afraid for Ned, and she did not understand why. She did not love her brother. At least, not with any of the perfect, unquestioning love she had been told a girl was supposed to feel for her brother. She barely saw him anymore. And if he had done what they said, if he’d killed Dr. Maton, if he’d killed a man in a duel . . .
But if he had, and if anyone found out, Ned would die. He’d be hanged by the neck until dead. Father would let it happen, because if he lifted a finger, he might be implicated in Ned’s crimes.
No one would help Ned. Ned, who was as damaged as she was, as Liza was. He was as confused, as lonely, as desperate to carve out some kind of life that their father did not control. He’d given money to Susan when she’d needed it, and asked for nothing in return. He’d told Jane he’d stand aside and let her fly if she found a way.
Ned would die, and it might not be her fault, but she’d be responsible. She couldn’t do it. She was not brave enough to live with the fact of having killed her brother. She did not hate him that much. She was saddened and sickened and sorry for him.
And Jane cried because it was not right. It would never be right.
But also because it was true.
Chapter 48
Victoria hated Sir John’s system. She hated his hectoring and his rules, his observations and his lies. She hated his hold over her mother and her.
But of all the ideas he had instituted to shape her life, the one she hated worst was the “tour.”
She hated the endless hours in jolting carriages with Mother rehearsing her fears, her jealousies, and all the disasters she anticipated in every town. She hated the endless parade of strange rooms in strange houses and the continual presence of strange, smiling, fawning people.
If she were allowed to ride horseback sometimes or even to walk out and really see the towns or the country they passed through, perhaps it would be different. But if anything, she was kept even more closely than she was in the palace. In addition to the usual list of dangers, Mama feared madmen and revolutionaries roaming the English countryside. So she made Victoria stay in whatever room had been set aside for her until a specific event required their presence.
Every town they stopped in had their public speeches. That meant long hours in the blazing heat or freezing cold, sitting on a hastily constructed platform that creaked and swayed whenever anybody moved, while local dignitaries droned and flattered. When these men were done, it was Sir John’s turn to stand up and smile out at the crowds and give an answer, which everyone pretended was hers.
These were the moments when Sir John was endlessly, entirely happy. He was constantly busy, consulting with everyone, orchestrating every detail, while Victoria was taken about like a parrot in its cage. Everyone jumped when he shouted, running this way and that at his slightest word. Even in the cold, on the platforms, when he sat behind the dignitaries, he seemed filled with energy and excitement.
And when the crowds cheered, his eyes lit up like a child’s on Bonfire Night.
There were tours of local industries to be navigated, bouquets from schoolchildren to be received, fairs to be presided over. Victoria sat. She stood. She waved. She held the bunches of flowers in the crook of her arm and tried not to cry because she missed Dash so badly.
But the worst of it was how exhaustion drained all the enjoyment out of those things she normally relished most. When they did go to some grand house for a dinner, the meal could drag on for hours, until Victoria grew sleepy and stupid. Then they might go to see a concert or play. But by the time they reached the theater, Victoria was so tired she could barely sit up straight, and more often than not, her head ached so badly that her eyesight blurred and even the music became painful.
When at last she was allowed to crawl into bed, it could be as late as two in the morning. She hid under the covers, knowing that she would be woken at six so she could be dressed in time to be driven to wherever she was supposed to be next.
But she had been through all this before. She thought herself ready for it. But on this tour, she found, Sir John decided to introduce an entirely new horror.
They had spent the night in the Hotel Splendide, in York in a sprawling suite of rooms on the first floor. Victoria’s bed had been set up next to Mama’s, as usual. She had, it seemed, fallen asleep just minutes before.
“Wake up.”
It was Sir John. Victoria blinked her eyes open, startled by his gruff voice.
He stood beside her bed. He had a folio tucked under his arm. A strange maid stood behind him with the tray of tea and toast.
Victoria struggled to sit upright. Where was Mama? Lehzen? Their beds were already empty. How could that be? Who had let Sir John into the boudoir alone?
