The Wild Princess

Nineteen



Louise waited patiently, then not so patiently for word from Stephen Byrne after he left for London. She neither saw nor heard from the man for thirteen days. Gossip among the staff and reduced court at Balmoral had it that the handsome American was recalled to London by his superiors. Probably for disciplinary measures. And yet several of the queen’s ladies expressed, within Louise’s hearing, a wistful longing for his return. The man seemed to have a powerful effect on females, her mother included. Maybe that was why John Brown appeared happy to see him gone. The Scot would have the queen’s full attention for as long as Byrne stayed away.

Louise admitted to herself, although to no one else, that she was not entirely immune to Byrne’s brooding, dark good looks and demonstrable physical prowess. The man was positively magnificent astride a horse. And his entrance into a room seemed to suck all of the air out of it. Nevertheless, she intended to limit their relationship to conversations of a purely business nature. Anything more friendly was, after all, impossible. She was a married woman and would remain so until either she or Lorne passed from this life.

Even the vaguest romantic imaginings that included the Raven, she chased from her mind.

When Byrne finally returned to Balmoral, he sent Louise a maddeningly curt note by way of Lady Car:



Nothing of value to report on the matter of your inquiry.



Louise didn’t trust the man. Despite his refusal to accept payment for his time, she had given him a very generous stipend to cover his travel expenses, meant to last for as long as it took him to find Donovan. For all she knew, he’d already spent it on gambling, drink, and the sorts of women who plied their trade in the artists’ districts where she’d indicated he’d most likely find Donovan.

Before Louise could corner the annoying man and demand to know—in detail, sir, with a list of interviews you’ve accomplished on my behalf!—what the hell he’d been doing all of that time. Victoria decided the family must return to London. Parliament was soon to be called into session, and the PM was adamant that the queen make an appearance on opening day.

And so barely two months after their arrival in Scotland, all of the queen’s ladies and gentlemen, family members in residence, and staff, again packed up their finery and necessities to head for London. But this time Brown, with the support of the American agent and the captain of the royal guard, insisted that the journey south be accomplished by railway, a more secure and faster means of travel.

Victoria allowed that this made sense, considering the level of alarm raised by recent articles in the London press with regard to the “Irish problem.” But she informed Louise and Baby, “I will be in agony and tears the entire trip, thinking of my dear husband who last traveled this way with me.”

Louise had come to believe her mother relished mourning more than most any other activity in the world, and said nothing.

Once they were on their way, in the far more comfortable accommodations offered by the private train cars provided for the royal family, Louise spent hours seated beside her silent husband, dwelling upon her future—such as it was. She made several important decisions, which she shared with no one. Nevertheless they provided her with a modicum of comfort.

First, she would join Amanda in attending a demonstration in support of women’s suffrage, despite her mother’s admonitions that she should not become “involved.” Her friend had become more active than she in the movement and often wrote broadsides to be posted about the city.

Louise was so very proud of Amanda, who had come such a long way since her days as a lowly maid of all work. To Louise’s joy, Amanda’s marriage to young Dr. Henry Locock had transformed her friend. While little Edward was but a baby, and Amanda tied to home and hearth, Louise had sent one of her old tutors to her, so that she might learn to write better and improve her speaking skills, a desire Amanda often had confided to her. Amanda’s success was proof of what women, when properly educated, were capable of.

What truly perplexed Louise was her mother’s attitude toward suffrage. For some unfathomable reason, the Queen of England, the most independent-minded woman she knew, refused to acknowledge her sisters’ basic rights. Louise knew her mother would be furious if she found out one of her daughters had attended a public rally or, worse yet, a protest march. But she felt compelled to lend her voice and proclaim the injustice of male rule.

Louise’s second decision, made during the journey back to London, involved the Raven. At the first opportunity after they settled back into Buckingham Palace for the Season, she would confront Byrne and demand a full report. Exactly where had he inquired and what had he learned about Donovan Heath’s fate? No matter how slight the information might seem to him, she wanted it!

Louise was convinced the American knew something and was holding back from her. Why else would he avoid her like this, communicating only through a terse note? There were days when she had sensed his presence at Balmoral, yet when she went looking for him he disappeared, as if he were no more than a puff of smoke on the wind.

Thirdly, she vowed to devote more of her time to the Women’s Work Society—reorganizing the crafts and handwork they’d acquired, updating the displays, and working with Amanda to create new brochures to pass out or post around the city and let people know about the shop. She also wanted to develop a training program to broaden the skills of the women who came to her, giving them more options for earning a living wage.

And lastly, there was her art, which she dearly missed. Preparing for the wedding, she’d neglected it. She hadn’t begrudged the time she’d taken from her sculpting and painting, because she truly believed she was investing in a sound and satisfying marriage. Now that time seemed squandered. As soon as possible, she would set up a studio in the house she and Lorne would share. While their new home was being prepared for them, they would occupy a suite at Buckingham and she’d paint in the garden or set up her easel in the music room where the light was best. Her sculpting would need to wait for more space and privacy.

All in all, Louise kept telling herself, she was lucky to have a full, meaningful, and challenging life. She was young, in excellent health, and moderately attractive, if she did say so herself. As the daughter of the queen, she would never have to worry about money. The idea that her future entirely lacked sexual gratification, that she would never again enjoy the physical companionship of a man she cared deeply for, or bear children—well, she would simply have to put these losses firmly out of her mind and move on. The many excellent avocations and people already part of her world would have to suffice.



The morning of the suffrage rally, Amanda was in exceptionally high spirits. As Louise watched in dismay, her friend literally bounced off cabinets and walls in her enthusiasm, twice knocking over displays, shattering a pottery bowl, and spilling loose tea leaves all over a set of embroidered antimacassars.

Amanda barely took a breath between words as she chattered away at Louise. “And do you realize who will be there?”

“The prime minister?” Louise teased, knowing full well Mr. Gladstone would rather shoot himself in the foot than attend a women’s suffrage rally.

“Of course not.” Amanda laughed, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Although there are members of Parliament who support our cause in theory, I doubt they’ll dare show their faces at a major public demonstration like this one.”

“What’s so special about today’s?” Louise handed Amanda three hand-worked lace collars to add to the display in the consignment shop’s window, along with a charming painted tea set and selection of crocheted sweaters.

“Representatives of the NSWS have said they’ll come. Do you believe it? Oh, this will be a great and historic event, I can just feel it.”

Louise knew the National Society for Women’s Suffrage lobbied all the MPs, regardless of their party affiliation, encouraging them to support women’s suffrage. Perhaps soon they would have a little success. If they managed to get even a handful of these powerful men to step up and announce their commitment to the cause, it would be an amazing coup for women’s rights.

“Our la-dies are a-comin’ from all o’er the town,” Amanda sang to a bawdy tune then reverted to less melodious speech. “And from well into the countryside, I do hear. Rumor has it Laura McLaren is traveling all the way from Edinburgh, and the famous Millicent Fawcett will attend as well.” She patted an ecru lace collar into place on a throat-and-shoulders plaster mannequin that Louise had designed to show off their wares. “This is so very thrilling. I feel as if we are on the verge of a revolution of sorts. Don’t you taste it in the air, Louise? This modern age will be so wonderful for all of us.”

“Don’t get your hopes up too high, my girl.” After all, as daughter to the queen, she was in the privileged position of overhearing the queen’s ministers’ opinions, which weren’t often encouraging. The MPs clung to the old ways, foolishly arguing that women could depend upon the generosity of their men for everything good in their lives. But she only had to remember desperate stories of women like Amanda to know that leaving the protection of women, and children, to the males of the species guaranteed nothing. Hadn’t the Times only recently revealed in an editorial that tens of thousands of homeless women wandered the streets, begging or selling their bodies simply to survive? And what about all of the orphaned children? What men had stood up to save them?

It was an outrageous situation that had to end.

“Do you know how many will be at the rally?” Louise asked.

“Oh, hundreds . . . perhaps thousands!” Amanda climbed down from the shop window, grabbed Louise around the waist, and danced her around the room, narrowly avoiding the refurbished picture frames stacked in one corner.

Louise laughed and firmly brought her friend to a stop. “Where’s little Eddie today?”

“Henry offered to stay with him. Eddie will probably sleep through much of the afternoon. The child was so tired this morning after a late night with his mum and da. Once he’s asleep nothing will wake him. Henry will be able to see afternoon patients without distraction.” She threw her shawl around her shoulders and twirled one last time in the middle of the shop. “Oh, it will be absolutely glorious—we sisters, rich and poor alike, linked by a common cause.”

Louise hugged her. “Yes, dear heart, I’m sure it will be. And we’ll all do what we can to make the day come sooner when we can determine our own fates.” It occurred to her that, ironically, her friend, a commoner, would likely have more freedom than she, a princess, ever would. Louise fought off a wave of remorse and placed a sign in the shop window, saying they would return in two hours. She locked the door behind them.

The day was warm, the sun brilliant. After a recent rain the air now smelled cleaner than on most London days. The ever-present smog seemed to have temporarily washed away. They strolled, arm in arm, up the street and back through the market district, toward Hyde Park, where the rally would take place. From blocks away, Louise could hear drums thumping, horns blaring. The buzz of hundreds of voices came to them, louder and louder as they approached.

Louise felt her heart rise on a wave of hope. She wanted, like Amanda, to believe they were on the precipice of a historic moment. Someday, very soon, women would hold the same rights as men in English society—and, who knew, perhaps around the world. What a triumph that would be. Women would be free to enter into any profession, to travel as far as they wished, on their own if they liked. They would own property, perhaps even businesses—and wasn’t their little shop a modest beginning in that direction?

With each step Louise’s anticipation grew. She matched her stride to Amanda’s, felt her body take up the intoxicating rhythm of the drumbeat. Soon they were marching alongside dozens of other women, all descending upon the park. Some were attired in the height of fashion, in full afternoon toilette or chic Dolly Varden walking suits, others in the smocks of shopgirls. A few broke into a run in their enthusiasm to greet their sisters. Others moved with stately seriousness. Then there were those who ventured only small, timid steps, parasols half hiding their faces, as if fearful they were doing something wrong but still wished to be part of the brave effort.

The rally began with a prayer for solidarity, everyone holding hands in long human chains. Some men stood alongside their wives, sisters, or mothers, but they were few. Then a woman in a black coatdress and wide-brimmed hat that dwarfed her tiny face stepped onto a makeshift stage. She spoke to the gathering in a voice that carried surprisingly far. No one had introduced her, but her name was whispered throughout the crowd.

This is the famous Millicent Fawcett. The woman who had been an inspirational force in the struggle since its very inception.

She spoke of dedication. Of the need to reassure members of Parliament, husbands, brothers, and even other women that their goals were nonpartisan and nonthreatening. She encouraged her audience to seek the support of any man or woman who agreed that all people, regardless of sex, should possess the same rights. It was a stirring and brilliant speech. At its conclusion a great shout of joy and dedication swept through the crowd.

“Oh no, look there!” Amanda reached out and grasped Louise’s hand.

Louise turned and saw a line of police officers file into the park. She frowned. “This is a peaceful rally. I’m sure the police haven’t been instructed to interfere.” At least, not today, or so she hoped.

There had been a backlash against the police after they’d stormed a recent women’s rally. Each side had accused the other of brutal physical assaults. Only a few journalists claimed the women had provoked the attack by hurling stones at the police. Many more newspapers carried sketches and cartoons, showing women being knocked to the pavement and clubbed by bobbies the artists depicted as monstrous ogres. The public had been outraged. It seemed unlikely, so soon after such a large dose of bad press, the police would dare repeat their error.

“No, not the police.” Amanda’s voice shook and her grip on Louise’s hand tightened painfully. “On the far side of the stage. Oh, God, it’s him!”

“Who?” Louise scanned the crowd, unable to pick out a familiar face.

“Darvey. The pimp who . . . Don’t you remember? I hope he doesn’t see me.”

It took Louise a moment to recall why that name should be important. But the sheer terror in Amanda’s eyes soon brought it back to her. Roger Darvey—the bawd under whose fist Amanda had labored before she’d escaped to a better life.

“Surely he won’t recognize you now. Dressed as you are and all these years later.”

“I pray not. Oh please no, he’s coming this way.” Amanda danced in place, wild with agitation, hemmed in by the packed crowd but ready to bolt.

Louise held her firm, hoping to calm her. Running through this mob of women, standing shoulder to shoulder as they cheered Mrs. Fawcett, would be impossible. And the disturbance created by Amanda’s frantic dash would only draw the pimp’s attention to her, if he hadn’t already seen her.

“He can’t have noticed you from this far away, among all these other women. Anyway, why would he still be looking for you? Or even care where you’ve gone.”

Amanda’s pretty face contorted, her eyes fever bright with frenzy. “He punishes those who cross him,” she hissed. “I seen him kick a woman to death.”

“Amanda, please listen—”

“His pride, don’t you see?” her friend whispered urgently, lips an inch from Louise’s ear. “I was the girl who got away. Makes him look bad.” When Louise pulled away to look in Amanda’s eyes, tears had filled them.

“Quiet now,” Louise soothed. “Be brave. Keep your head down. He’ll pass by and be gone soon.” She watched the man move slowly through the crowd, shoulders hunched, head lowered, as if intent on private thoughts. He wasn’t even looking their way.

Some of the tension in Amanda’s face smoothed away. But her gaze never left the man in the patched jacket and battered top hat. She let out a breath, relaxed her death grip on Louise. “Thank you,” she whispered. “How many girls on the street find a princess to befriend them? To dig them out of the gutters. That’s why we’re here. So girls like me won’t have to—”

“Hush!” Louise warned.

At first it seemed to her that Darvey was rudely cutting through the middle of the crowd, solely to display his annoyance with the women’s presence. She’d seen similar behavior from men who ordinarily had better manners. Darvey’s downturned eyes were hard and angry and spiteful, as if he resented every single female standing there and demanding what, by right, ought to be hers. Moving faster now, he shoved one woman after another out of his way, making no attempt to excuse himself.

Louise felt her lips begin to turn up in a relieved smile, believing he’d missed them entirely, but then his ground-anchored gaze flicked upward, just once, directly at Amanda. She saw the shadow of a leer on his pulpy lips.

“Come this way,” Louise said. There was no time for explanation.

Amanda followed her glance to where Darvey was pressing forward, more quickly now, his trajectory having shifted directly toward them. A deathlike rigor seized Amanda’s lovely features. She let out a terrified shriek.

Hand in hand, they squeezed through a dense knot of women in dark-colored, severe dresses. They might have moved faster through a vat of molasses, whereas Darvey had the advantage of his size and willingness to knock to the ground anyone who stood in his way.

Louise looked back over her shoulder. He was gaining on them.

She cast around frantically for the bobbies she’d seen earlier. But if they were still anywhere within this part of the park, she could no longer see them through the wall of bodies. As they left Hyde Park by way of Cumberland Gate and burst into Oxford Street, Louise glanced around at the gated houses and shops with their CLOSED signs. They’d all locked down, in case things got out of hand and the ladies should suddenly take it into their heads to loot a butcher shop or hattery. She hastily calculated distances to safe havens. Neither Buckingham nor Kensington Palace were close enough to reach before Darvey fell upon them.

Amanda must have been thinking the same thing. She gasped, “My house. Run!”

They dropped hands and tore down Oxford Street, turning left then left again, into narrower uphill streets with smaller, less fashionable houses. Louise stopped paying attention to street names, trusting Amanda to lead them on the shortest route. She kept an eye open for anyone they might run to for help, but the police seemed nowhere around. Skirts lifted with one hand, hats secured with the other—they raced toward sanctuary.

Their shoes slapped and slid over rounded cobbles, skidding on spots slick with sewage and wash water. Wrenching her knee as she cornered yet again, Louise fought the pain and ran for her life. Ran until her lungs ached, pleading for air.

Dizziness threatened to send her reeling into a brick storefront. But the muscles in her legs, as if recalling childhood romps with Bertie and Arthur, miraculously carried her forward.

From behind her came the beastly shouts of the man pursuing them. Like an ogre from a childhood nightmare he shouted his awful threats, tormenting Amanda with disgusting promises of what he’d do to her when he caught her.

Lord, help us.

Ahead in the shadows of a narrowing street, Louise glimpsed a precarious stack of crates left behind after market day. Even from this distance she smelled the rotting fruit. Its sickly sweet, cloying odor fouled the warm air. Saved, no doubt, to be used as animal fodder.

Amanda was two long strides ahead of her. Louise saw her adjust her path to avoid the crates.

Louise gritted her teeth and angled her body toward the narrow space between the grocer’s wall and the boxes. Lowering one shoulder she plunged ahead. Aimed for the third box from the top, chest high. Braced herself for impact.

Pain shot up through her shoulder, into her neck. “Ah!” she cried. But her strategy was effective. The entire stack tumbled over with a splintering crash.

Behind her Louise heard the grunt of their pursuer. The squelching sounds of trodden fruit. The thud of a body hitting paving stones. Enormously gratified with the results of her tactic, she lifted her skirts higher, lost her hat to the wind, but ran on after Amanda, who seemed unaware of the calamity they’d left in their wake.

Louise didn’t dare slow down. She’d bought them only a little time.

Too soon, the pounding of iron-pegged boots returned, accompanied by snarls of vengeance. She snapped her head around to peer behind her, but in taking her attention from the uneven road felt her toe catch the front edge of a paver.

The street rushed up at her, a solid gritty brown, muck-puddled wave. Don’t fall. Can’t fall! He’d be on her in a second.

Still pitching forward, she jammed a foot down, regained her balance, and stumbled up the incline.

Louise recognized where they were now—the last few blocks before Amanda’s house on Highgate Hill. There, at the street’s pinnacle, loomed a stark, coal-blackened stone church with its single tower. And next to it—Park House, the women’s shelter. The good Dr. Locock’s brownstone waited just beyond.

Blessed safety.

Mere steps ahead of her, Amanda flew past the church, rounded a corner, and threw herself at the front door. She grasped Louise by the arm, as if afraid she wasn’t moving fast enough, and dragged her inside before slamming the door behind them with a deafening bang.

Both women dove for the bolt and shoved it home.

Outside, a body crashed into the heavy wooden planks. A barrage of muffled curses assaulted them through the door.

“Is that Beelzebub himself chasing you girls home?” a cheery voice asked. “Or just one of your antisuffrage adversaries?”

Panting, clutching her sides as she tried to catch her breath, Louise turned to face the tall, elegantly mustached man who observed them from the kitchen doorway.

“Thank God you’re here, Henry,” Amanda cried, throwing herself into her startled husband’s arms. “It’s that terrible m—” Her words were cut off by another volley of curses from the far side of the door, followed by a thunderous pounding of fists. This time the words were clear, as if Darvey pressed his mouth to the door.

“F*ckin’ bitch! Y’ain’t gettin’ away again.”

Henry Locock froze, his expression grim. “Is that the man?”

“Go away, Darvey,” Amanda shouted. “I’m no more yours to use.”

“Nah, you’s gonna pay, all right. Two more o’ me girls ran off ’cause a you.”

Louise knew Henry Locock had long ago learned of his wife’s tragic past. He had made it plain to all that he didn’t blame her for the desperate situation in which she’d found herself. If he ever got his hands on the man who’d so abused and debased her, he’d put aside his vow as a physician to “do no harm.” But now that she’d actually witnessed Darvey’s violence, Louise feared as much for her friend’s husband as for Amanda herself.

To her horror, Henry took a step toward the door.

Before Louise could say anything, Amanda threw herself between the door and her husband. “No!” she screamed. “He’ll kill you. You don’t know what he’s capable of. Please, Henry, for our children’s sake, don’t.” Her eyes darted toward the back room where her son must have somehow slept through the commotion. “He’ll go away.”

Henry turned to Louise for confirmation.

She’d seen enough of Roger Darvey to convince her. She gave Henry a bleak look and shook her head.

“As I thought.” Turning on his heel Henry disappeared into his examination room. Seconds later, he returned with his hunting rifle. “He won’t come visiting again, if he knows what’s good for him.”

Brushing his wife aside, Henry unbolted the door, flung it wide, snapped the butt of the gun to his shoulder, and curled his finger around the trigger.

Surprised in the midst of his attack on the door, Darvey froze, fists raised above his head. Momentum carried him forward, propelling him into the gun’s muzzle. It took him a moment to shift his murderous gaze from the face of the man in front of him to the weapon between them, its business end jammed below his ribs.

Darvey’s expression switched in a flash from fury to shock. Then he was backpedaling as if on an invisible velocipede. He tripped off the curb and tumbled to the ground.

“You will never, ever, come to my house again,” Henry shouted, advancing on him, thrusting his weapon’s muzzle toward the man’s face. “Neither will you approach or speak to my wife. Is that clear, sir?”

Darvey said nothing, but he cringed and let out a mongrel’s whimper when Henry leveled the gun’s barrel at the center of his forehead. He looked past the gun, past the doctor, toward the house, as if still contemplating a devious means of carrying out his revenge. But a second later, he was scrambling to his feet and off at a run.

“Good job, Henry.” Louise patted him on the shoulder when he’d stepped back inside and shut the door. But his eyes were all for his wife.

Amanda threw herself into his arms, weeping.

Henry handed the rifle to Louise. He wrapped his long arms around his wife.

“I doubt the rogue will bother any of us again,” he said, looking puffed up with pride at the reaction he’d got from Darvey.

“You were so brave. So very brave, my darling,” Amanda sobbed. “Thank you.”

“Even an educated gentleman, sometimes, can summon up a bit of the bully in him when necessary.” He winked at Louise, over his wife’s shoulder. “Now, now, dear girl. It’s all right. The monster is gone for good. Enough tears.”

Louise smiled nervously as she leaned the rifle against the wall beside the front door. Something in the way Darvey had glowered at them, his tail not quite between his legs, made her doubt they’d seen the last of him.

Now she wished she hadn’t been so eager to avoid Stephen Byrne’s attempts to protect her. Had the Raven been with them at the rally today, they would have been safe.

She wasn’t sure why she knew this—that Byrne would stand between her and danger, no matter the cost to him. But she felt it in every fiber of her body. She had a protector—a knight, though not one in shining armor. A knight in a dirty brown duster and Stetson hat.

How very strange, she thought.