A Royal Wedding(119)
“But there is peace right now,” she said.
“And that peace is based on a balance of power between the Royal Houses that depends on you marrying Alphonso. If the Rubiats sense a weakness in our commitment to getting that done, they’ll attack again. It’s just what they do.”
She sighed. It always came back to that. “Why don’t I have to marry someone in the Rubiat family?” she asked out of curiosity.
“They don’t have anyone who is right for you to marry. They haven’t been able to produce a successful new generation in a long time. That’s why they have to pick fights to get their way.”
She looked down at all the miners, working so busily. “Is it all gemstones?” she asked him.
“Not at all. Much of the mineral material is actually used in technological and industrial ways. The gems are only the flashy, public relations side of the industry.”
“The fun stuff?”
“Exactly.” He turned to look at where she sat behind him on the bike. “And this is a big part of your legacy.”
Her legacy. What a tiresome phrase that was getting to be. Right along with “her destiny.” But she didn’t talk back, and soon they were on their way again. She was growing more and more excited. She’d always loved the lake house, but for the last few years it had been so disappointing to go during the summer, be told Andre would surely come this time, and wait and wait, only to be forgotten again.
And then, finally, it was just ahead, a huge old brooding house, filled with comfortable rooms and memories, the place where everyone came eventually, every summer. It was late. The light was fading. She hugged Andre tightly as they rode up to the door. At last they were home.
CHAPTER SIX
THE morning dawned like Christmas, with a gift in every scene. There was the sunlight on the lake, the sound of birds flying by, the scent of spring flowers in the air, the prospect of a ride out on the water in a rowboat, just the two of them.
It was early in the season and there were no servants yet, no other inhabitants to spoil the fun. In just a week or two the place would be crawling with royals and their staffs. But for now they had the place to themselves.
Julienne cooked a nice breakfast of Belgian waffles and cinnamon syrup—totally delicious, if she did say herself, but Andre didn’t comment. That either meant he hadn’t noticed, or that he didn’t want to encourage her interest by letting her know how good she was. She couldn’t quite decide which it might be.
They took a walk through the orchard, with its peach trees just setting fruit, then down along the water, skipping stones and laughing at each other. Andre went out to survey some broken fenceposts he’d noticed as they rode in, and Julienne went exploring in the house.
Every room seemed to have a treasure trove of mementoes from past summers. She found amazing things everywhere, and then she pulled a beautifully bound copy of The Highwayman from the shelf. The Alfred Noyes poem about the tragic love between a robber and a landlord’s black-eyed daughter had always been a favorite of hers, and she opened the book, prepared for a treat. But the first thing she saw was that the flyleaf had been torn out, as though someone wanted to either preserve or destroy whatever was written there. She frowned, then noticed there were indentations on the next page. A note had been written, and with enough pressure to leave a pretty good impression. Searching a nearby desk, she found a pencil and proceeded to shade it lightly across the pertinent area. The missing note sprang into view.
“Hah!” She couldn’t help but give a little crow of victory. Then she put down her pencil and attempted to read the note.
“My darling A,” it began.
She bit her lip, wondering if it had been written to Andre.
You are my Highwayman, and, like Bess, I’ll be waiting by moonlight. Your first love, your true love, Denise.
She stared at the note. Now she was certain it was meant for Andre. Her teeth began to chatter, and it was a moment before she realized she was trembling. She shook her head, trying to shake it off. How silly of her. Of course he’d had women who’d adored him. Who knew how old this was? What did she expect?
And yet somehow it just got into her heart and twisted it. Pure pain. Jealousy? Maybe. Why not? Of course it hurt to think of him with another woman, no matter how silly that was.
Clasping the book to her chest, she went in search of him and found him, just back from his trip around the estate.
“Who’s Denise?” she asked bluntly, not waiting on niceties.