“Look.” He thumbed through to a particular page and held it open for me to see. “To this day, I can’t find a trace of this poem in any other edition. And you know as well as I that books of poetry by Robert Burns are ubiquitous in Britain. They’re everywhere. But not this one.”
For the first time, I looked beyond the title page and found that although the spine was maybe an inch thick, there were only ten or twelve poems in the whole book. Each heavy page contained a few lines each. I began to read the first one, entitled “I’ve Loved a Flaxen’d Quean.” I’d read Robert Burns before and knew his words could get bawdy, but I was frankly surprised by the highly erotic images Burns inspired in this particular poem, seemingly devoted to a beauty named Sophie. At least, that was what I could glean from the heavy Scots dialect.
“It’s a beautiful book,” I said. “But I’d need a glossary to understand all the words.”
He chuckled. “It’s impossible to read without one.”
“It’s all pretty stirring stuff, though. He must’ve loved her very much.”
“Ah, yes, and that’s the problem.”
“Why?” I snickered. “Was she really a queen?”
“Funny you should ask.” He took a long sip of beer before continuing. “In this case, the word quean is old Scots dialect, meaning a pretty young girl. But there were rumors, frantically quashed, naturally, that Robbie Burns had a sizzling affair with Princess Augusta Sophia, the daughter of George the Third.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“Doesn’t it just,” he said wryly. “According to some accounts, the princess spent the season in Edinburgh in 1785, then returned to London and, shortly thereafter, gave birth to a son.”
“Okay, wait, jet lag must be catching up to me.” I took a sip of beer as though it would help me concentrate. “Are you seriously talking about George the Third, The Madness of King George George? That George?”
“That’s the one.”
“You’re saying his daughter had an affair with Robert Burns?”
“So it would seem.”
I thought about it, then nodded. “So what’s the problem?”
“What’s the-” he shouted, then hushed himself. “We’re talking about Robert Burns, for God’s sake. They called him Rab the Ranter. He was a poor farmer and a troublemaker, and he appealed to the same class of people. He wrote a poem called ‘The Fornicator.’ Another he devoted ‘To a Louse.’ He would’ve been booted out of Holyrood on his ass.”
I waited for his rant to finish, then said, “So you’re saying he didn’t have an affair with the princess?”
“No,” he whispered. “I’m saying he did and the news was squelched at the highest levels of power.”
I squinted at him. “I admit I’m a little slow today, but are you implying that the monarchy frowned on the bad boy of Scotland diddling the pure English rose?”
He laughed. “Exactly. It’s highly titillating stuff.”
“Especially in that time.” I sat back. “The English must’ve hated that rumor.”
“Oh, indeed, because they made sure there was never a whisper of controversy.”
“Really?” I turned the book in my hand. “Well, that’s fun, isn’t it?”
“That’s one way to put it.” He pointed to the book. “I’ll guarantee they won’t be happy to know this book is still in circulation.”
“But that’s silly. Who cares?”
He sat back with his pint. “Ah, my naive Yankee love.”
“You’re saying they would care?”
“Most greatly.”
“Two hundred years later? Why?”
“It’s a stain on the monarchy. If nothing else, it’s bad PR.”
“Well, I understand that,” I said, nodding. “So you think they hushed it up? Paid Burns to stay away?”
“At the very least.”
“And at the most?”
He ran his finger dramatically across his neck.
I slapped his knee. “That’s ridiculous.” I opened the book, felt the paper. The pub was too dark to study it closely, so I couldn’t conclude much. And before I got too wrapped up in the book and the history, I had to remind myself that Kyle had been known to flirt with the truth in more than just his love life. He could flatter and cajole and twist the truth if it meant making an extra buck in bookselling, as well. I wanted more information before I would agree to work on the book.
“So who’s ‘they’?” I asked finally.
He folded his arms across his chest. “My guess would be Queen Charlotte, George’s wife. History has it that she watched those princesses like a mother hen.”
“So God forbid one of her darlings might bring home a scruffy Scottish lad who called himself a poet.”
“Exactly.”
“And this book…”
“Could blow the lid open.”
I sighed. “And you figured I’m always up for bringing shame and embarrassment to the British royal family.”
“It’s what makes you my favorite girl.”