An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(101)
“Then I wish you every success, Your Serene Highness,” I told her.
I moved to curtsy, but she put out her hand to shake mine instead. “Thank you, Veronica Speedwell.”
CHAPTER
30
At the princess’s invitation, Stoker and I traveled to the Alpenwald as guests of the royal family and were accorded far more prominence than we might have expected. I amused myself en route by reading the Daily Harbinger, which devoted several issues to the upcoming nuptials complete with sketches of the princess’s trousseau. There were no articles written by J. J. Butterworth, a notable omission, and one that told me she had not yet succeeded in breaking the story she had followed into Windsor Castle. Whatever game was afoot, I had no doubt she would, in the end, prove an able hunter. I was pleased to find a small article near the back of the newspaper that made mention of an expedition embarking upon the Canadian Rockies—an expedition that included Douglas Norton. He had, it was noted, left London in some haste in January and had decided to set out at once for the wilds of Alberta.
Stoker was occupied with his book—a saucy French novel that had been banned in seventeen countries—and with a hamper packed to the brim with various delights from the kitchen of Julien d’Orlande, the journey passed pleasurably for both. The night before the wedding, we were summoned to the princess’s audience chamber. We had been lodged in Hochstadt’s best hostelry, a timber-framed inn that looked like something conjured by the Brothers Grimm. Every part of the small city had been bedecked with flower garlands in honor of the nuptials, and the air was heavy with the scent of the blossoms of St. Otthild’s wort. We arrived promptly, just as the clock tower in the town hall chimed the hour, sending forth an enormous mountain goat to bleat the time.
The princess received us in her throne room, sitting upon a carved and gilded chair hung with azure blue silk. She rose as we approached, smiling broadly. She beckoned to the chancellor, who came forward carrying a small cushion. Atop it rested two medals, each struck with an otter blazoned in tiny sapphires.
“The Order of St. Otthild, First Class,” she told us as she gestured to the floor. Two blue velvet cushions had been laid for us, and we knelt as she presented us with our honors. It was the first of such dignities that either of us had been accorded, and I was conscious of a rush of pride that we had been of use in the princess’s time of need. And as I noted the emerald-eyed stare of the lofty Guimauve, tucked behind his mistress’s skirts, I was grateful that this time at least, we had neither of us acquired a new pet as a souvenir of our investigations. A flurry of journalists attempted to question us as we left the palace, for we were a story in our own right, and I laughed much later to find our photograph, blurry and indistinct, featured in a column in the Daily Harbinger with J. J. Butterworth’s byline, explaining that we had received our honors for “undisclosed services to the Alpenwalder Crown.”
True to his word, the chancellor presented us with a clock, enormous and brightly painted and featuring a sinister-looking goat which bleated the hour and which I insisted Stoker keep to adorn his folly.
The next day we stood proudly in the cathedral as the princess walked down the aisle to take Duke Maximilian as her husband. We watched them exchange solemn vows, pledging themselves to one another for eternity, and I fancied I detected a new seriousness about the duke. I could only hope that purpose and responsibility would settle him. For her part, the princess seemed happy enough, satisfied that she had done her duty by her country. And as she passed us, I saw a glint from within her bouquet of flowers, roses and St. Otthild’s wort and cascades of ivy. It was only a moment, but I recognized the glimmer of an Alpenwalder summit medal, and I guessed whose badge the princess had chosen to carry with her on her wedding day. Alice Baker-Greene would never be far from her thoughts, I knew.
When they had signed the register and the procession had made its way out of the cathedral, we emerged into the sunlight to find the square thronged with Alpenwalders, flinging petals of St. Otthild’s wort into the air in celebration. The bells rang out and trumpets sounded and beer ran from the fountains. Stoker turned to me, the sunshine brilliant as it gleamed upon his hair. In spite of the crowds, he wrapped one strong arm about my waist and kissed me, a thorough and expert effort that left me breathless.
“You are grown sentimental,” I said lightly. “It must be the romantic in you. Next minute you will be quoting Keats at me.”
His mouth, warm and supple and infinitely skilled, curved into a smile. “‘You are always new; The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.’”
The prick of sudden tears stung my eyes and I brushed aside a petal of St. Otthild’s wort. I put out my hands, taking his lapels in my grip. “I am sorry, Stoker.”
“For what?” His gaze searched my face.
“That I cannot give you this—what Gisela and Maximilian have done today. If you need this, this proper and legal thing in the eyes of the world, I understand. I will release you,” I told him even as I clutched him fiercely.
He covered my hands with his own. “Will you change your mind about marriage?”
“Never,” I told him. I paused, wondering if I would have to give voice to my feelings, if I could give voice to them. But it seemed he understood much of what was in my heart.
“Neither will I,” he replied. “And even if I did, I would not do that to you. Veronica, I have no need to pin those wings of yours to a card and put a label to you—Mrs. Revelstoke Templeton-Vane. You are, and always will be, Veronica Speedwell. And I could never wish you different than you are. Now, let us go back to London where we belong.”