A Curious Beginning

“And what a burden that would be for an impressionable, romantic youth,” I went on. “Married in haste to an unsuitable woman, waiting for an opportunity to introduce her to his family and win their blessing, and then his beloved father, the bulwark of the entire family, is dead—because of him, because the shock of the news killed him.”


“That impressionable, romantic youth would be devastated,” Stoker said. “He would carry that guilt to the end of his days. And it would poison everything and everyone to do with that marriage.”

“Of course. He wouldn’t have been able to bear to look at her after that.” I stopped and did a quick bit of arithmetic. “Lily would have been three months into her pregnancy with me. Surely the Prince of Wales knew about it. Perhaps he even planned to tell them at Christmas during the happy family gathering, brazening the thing out—‘I have wonderful news! I am married and she is expecting an heir!’—but then death comes for his father first, shattering everything. The queen is utterly devastated by grief, destroyed by it, withdrawing almost totally from society. The prince could never have told her then—it surely would have killed her. And he bears the burden of her blame for his father’s death.”

“Meanwhile she has been planning his marriage to a beautiful Danish princess,” Stoker said, picking up the thread. “And what choice does he have but to acquiesce? He must agree to the betrothal to atone for killing his father.”

“And so he relinquishes his future with Lily and her child in order to do his duty as his mother, as England, would define it. He gives them up in order to expiate the sin of killing his own father. He breaks all ties with the woman he loves and his child and marries for reasons of state.”

Stoker rubbed his chin. “Plausible. I would go so far as to say probable. But that still does not tell us what his role has been in all of this. Or what your uncle’s purpose in seeking you out has been.”

“That depends entirely on whether he knows the identity of Lily’s husband,” I pointed out. “I suspect if we were to pry into Edmund de Clare’s associates in Ireland we would find separatists among them. He comes from an old Catholic family. It is entirely logical that he would support Home Rule.”

“And men have done quite a lot in order to be the power behind the throne,” he said with a nod towards the surrounding towers. “These stones alone have seen their share of ruthless uncles.”

“Which would also account for why my uncle was so keen to remove you from the scene but without harming me,” I pointed out. “He would want me in good health.”

“With an eye to?”

“Abducting me to Ireland seems the likeliest,” I said finally. “Some Catholic stronghold where he can tuck me away and keep me under his thumb while he presents my claims.”

“Christ,” Stoker said with a grimace, “there are enough islands and hideaways, he could keep you hidden a hundred years or more and no one would find you. And in the meantime, he could be filling your head with tales of family and God and free Ireland.”

“And doubtless marrying me off to a suitable separatist fellow of his choosing,” I said with a shudder.

“You might have a point. If he marries you off and gets you breeding, he could do even more with your child than he could with you. He wouldn’t even need you then,” he said in a sepulchral voice.

“If you are trying to frighten me, I assure you, my imagination is every bit as Gothic as yours. I can well imagine the poisoned tea or the slim dagger in the night and the claims that I succumbed to a fever while everyone rallies around my infant,” I said repressively. “But we can agree that dear uncle Edmund has no immediate designs upon my life.”

“But he would have had ample reason for wanting the baron dead,” Stoker pointed out. “De Clare would need more than you in his power—he would need the proofs of your claims. If Max refused to surrender them . . .” His voice trailed off and I gave a shudder. I hated to think that a man—a man I had liked and who had been kind to me—had been killed for me.

“But he is not the only possibility,” Stoker said with some relish. “There is another candidate just as likely.”

I stared at him in dawning comprehension.

“It cannot be Mornaday! He has come too often to our aid.”

Stoker shrugged. “So it seems. But has he been coming to our aid or merely thwarting your uncle’s attempts to spirit you out of England? Think of it. Your uncle, aside from having his men lay unfriendly arms upon me, has shown only an inclination to talk to you. That you have refused him has driven him to increasingly more desperate actions—actions which have not harmed so much as a hair upon your head.”

“Bosh!” I declared. “He tried to have you drowned in the Thames, in case you have forgot.”

“Only because he thought I was your abductor. And to an outsider, it would seem as if I had taken you into my power and kept you there.”