Andover Castle, England
"Darling, are you sure you’re all right?" Trudy Carlisle asked.
Her mother’s voice sounded so normal, even laced with worry. Nothing in Maggie’s life had been normal for a very long time.
"I'm fine, Mom."
"Do you want me to come and get you?"
Harold’s greatest gift to Maggie, occurring when she was in surgery, had been to reassure her mother that it was not necessary to fly to England. The fact that Harold had achieved such a feat by lying to Trudy Carlisle was an act he confessed on the journey to Andover. Maggie didn’t feel the need to inform her mother of the surgery, or that she would forever be scarred and that she might have some nerve damage to her right arm.
Such news could wait; she wasn’t prepared to fight her mother as well as her other battles. She was trying to get her passport back from Damien MacCauley and trying to avoid Harold.
"No, Mom, I'll be home soon, I just wanted to call and make sure you weren't being hounded too much by reporters."
"Your father's bought an electric fence."
"Oh, God."
"Don't be too distraught, he's wanted to do it for years. This just gives him the excuse. He woke up the other night when Rex and King were barking like mad and made the decision without discussing it with me."
Only her father would name two dachshunds Rex and King.
“Don’t you worry, dear. You father and I can handle any reporters."
"Which means you're not going to tell me."
"Which means, Maggie, that it's not something you have to worry about. I'd rather you spent your energy getting back home. Do you need any money?"
"No. Have I made the papers?"
"A small article here and there."
"Headlines, right?" Maggie asked.
"None of our friends read that kind of paper, darling."
"Aunt Louise has had a subscription to the National Enquirer for years, Mom."
“He’s a duke, Maggie."
Well, that had been some time coming.
“Yes, Mom, he’s a duke."
“Did you know?"
Maggie sighed. “Yes, I knew."
“You might have told me,” her mother said.
"Yes."
"Now is not the time to lecture, is it? Oh, Maggie, I am sorry."
"I know you are, Mom. So am I. I guess he was a duke in sheep's clothing."
Her mother ignored her futile attempt at humor. "There's no way it could work out, dear? You seemed to like him a great deal."
Like him? If it were only that, she wouldn't be feeling this pain.
Her mother skimmed over the silence. "Come home soon, darling, we'll make it through this."
For a moment, Maggie couldn't speak. It was the unconditional love in Trudy Carlisle's voice that was nearly her undoing.
"I love you, Mom."
"I love you, too, Maggie. We all do, honey."
Maggie held the phone between her palms long after the call was over. Somehow, if she held it, her mother was there, ready and more than willing to offer comfort. The kind of warm, unquestioning hug Maggie had gotten when she'd lost the spelling contest after going all the way to the state level, or when her first boyfriend dumped her. The kind of unquestioning affection she needed now, in the eye of the hurricane.
She'd been warmly welcomed at Andover Castle yesterday, after being introduced to two young men whose duty was to protect her. She was shown to a suite of rooms whose layout she didn't bother to memorize; her visit to Andover would be of short duration. Since yesterday, she'd remained in her room, seeing no one.
Until today, she'd been unable to make a phone call.
When Mr. MacCauley visited her a few hours ago, she'd asked him point blank, "Am I a prisoner?"
"The nation is grateful for your heroism, Miss Carlisle," he said.
“Which isn't an answer, Mr. MacCauley. I did what anyone would have done."
“His Grace is taking a bit of unpleasantness from the paparazzi because of you, but I suppose you know that."
MacCauley's personality was as abrasive as sandpaper.
"No, I didn't know that," she said.
"The tabloids, Miss Carlisle, are calling him the Randy Royal."
"I suppose that's better than the Dissolute Duke or the Wild Widower." The nurses at the hospital hadn't hesitated to share the gossip with her.
MacCauley didn't respond.
"When may I have my passport back, Mr. MacCauley, or will I have to apply to the Embassy for protection?"
"Protection, miss? You're a guest at one of the most beautiful homes in the country, if not the world. You've servants at your beck and call and the press clamoring for your every word. Hardly necessary for protection, is it?"
"From you, Mr. MacCauley? I would say so. When may I have my passport back? I'd like very much to go home."
"I expect you would, Miss Carlisle. I expect you would very much, indeed."
A cryptic comment to mask the fact that he'd not answered her question. Nor was her passport given back to her.
Instead, she was a very privileged prisoner in Richard's home.
Reason enough to want to cry.
"How is she, Harold?" Richard asked. Harold held the cell phone to his ear and slipped from the corridor to a private room to talk to his employer.
"I would say that she seems fine, sir, but she has elected to avoid me."
"She hasn’t taken any of my calls."
"It was after all, sir, to be expected," Harold said.
"Was it? I'm afraid I didn't reason it out that far, Harold. At least MacCauley's agreed to keep her passport."
"Is that wise, sir?"
“It isn’t wise at all, Harold. I’ve been remarkably foolish about everything."
Hadn't they all been?
"Did you know, Harold?"
There, the question he'd anticipated and dreaded.
"I did, sir," he said manfully.
Silence had a rhythm of its own. Or perhaps that was only his heartbeat as he waited for Richard to speak. Was he going to dismiss him? It was his right.
"Miss Vicki told me that she'd confided in Miss Carlisle, sir. Just before we were to leave for Scotland."
"Why didn't you tell me, Harold?"
He sighed. "I thought she might tell you, sir. But even so, I thought she might heal you."
"She's not a goddamned aspirin, Harold."
"No, sir."
Harold closed his eyes and waited for the words.
"Thank you, Harold."
His eyes flew open.
"If you'd told me, I doubt I would have continued with the holiday. As it was – ". His words trailed off.
Harold was suddenly so overwhelmed he thought he might embarrass himself. Instead, he cleared his throat and remembered his position.
“How is the leg, sir?”
“Tolerable, Harold, thank you. Has Maggie everything she needs?"
"Every step has been taken for her comfort, sir."
"Have Nanny Bryce fetch Vicki home from school, Harold. Vicki and Maggie have always liked each other."
"I'll talk to Nanny Bryce when I hang up, sir."
"We can't keep her there forever but is she resigned to staying for a few days?”
"I couldn't say, sir. As I mentioned, she won't speak to me. She doesn't speak to anyone. As to the press, sir, they show no signs of relinquishing their post. Might I inquire sir, if they've left you alone in the hospital?"
"I’m sure they'd tear the flesh off my bones if MacCauley’s men let them through.”
“Are you certain you don’t need me with you, sir?” Harold asked. "Is there anything I can do?"
“Just see to Maggie, Harold. Until I get there."
"I will try my best, sir." Harold wondered if his royal employer knew how difficult that chore was turning out to be.
Maggie had agreed, grudgingly, to come out of her room. Four walls, however beautifully decorated, were confining after awhile.
Harold escorted her to the Duke’s Parlor, Richard's favorite room, and so called because of the massive portraits of the previous owners of Andover lining the walls. He’d prattled on about Andover and its history as if she were not pained by any reminders of Richard.
Evidently, the walls were covered in brocade rendered priceless by age. The furniture better than any found in a museum, a potpourri of all styles and types, eclectically blended over the generations. A previous duke had caused the plaster ceilings to be redone. A duchess had commissioned the floor-to-ceiling bookcases along one wall.
Although Harold carefully omitted Richard's name, each sentence, each word seemed imbued with his presence.
Now she sat in a very comfortable wing chair, the texture of its upholstery a clue to its favored status. A small tray with a silver pot of coffee sat beside her. She'd declined the usual amenities served with high tea; the one thing she'd discovered about the British was that they generally treated upset with food.
Suddenly, she felt a small hand touch hers. A moment later, Vicki threw her arms around Maggie’s neck, hugging her.
"Nanny Bryce said you were here," Vicki said. "I nearly screamed. Granted, I'm a girl and anyone would have excused me for being excited. But I am the daughter of a duke, after all, and I'm supposed to mind my manners."
"Your manners are perfect," Maggie said, hugging Vicki back with one arm.
"I am so very glad to see that you're here. Am I hurting you?" Vicki pulled away and Maggie wondered if she was eyeing the sling.
"It's mostly to keep my arm immobile," she said. “You didn't hurt me."
"Were you in an auto accident?" Vicki asked in a small voice.
"I wasn't, no." How much had anyone told Vicki about what had happened in Scotland?
She reached out with one hand. A moment later, Vicki put hers atop it.
"Actually," she said, deciding to be honest, "I was shot."
Vicki's hand tightened on hers. "Why ever were you shot, Maggie?" Vicki asked.
"I think I was in the wrong place at the wrong time," Maggie said.
“A drive-by shooting?”
“I think you’ve been watching too much television."
“I do watch more at school than I can at home,” Vicki admitted. “Did it happen in England? Or was it in America?"
"Neither," she said.
There, the topic had been broached, some explanation had been given. Richard would have to tell his daughter the rest. Maggie didn't feel as if she had the right to do so. The wrong word could worry the child. Too little information would make Vicki curious and she had the feeling that once Vicki's curiosity was spurred, nothing but the truth would satisfy it.
"Are you back from school?" she asked.
"Yes. Nanny Bryce came and got me early. I wouldn't be here for two days, otherwise. At first I thought I would be very lonely, going away to school. But I have a great many friends there, Maggie. I seem to miss them as much on the weekends as I do Andover during the week. But I'm most happy wherever Father is."
Maggie stifled her smile.
"And your brother? Is Charlie still a bother?"
Vicki sighed theatrically. "I'm afraid he is. But it's his age. I'm sure I shall quite like him when he gets older."
"Vicki. I didn't know you had returned from school."
Another voice, a female voice Maggie didn't recognize.
"Aunt Celeste. I came to see our visitor. Do you know Maggie Carlisle? Maggie, this is my Aunt Celeste."
"Go and see Nanny Bryce, Vicki," Celeste said.
"I've already seen Nanny Bryce, Aunt Celeste."
"Do what I said, Vicki."
"I shall come back, Maggie," Vicki said.
She could just imagine the look Vicki sent her aunt.
Richard's leg hurt abominably; he felt like hell, but he wasn't going to stay in hospital longer than absolutely necessary. He'd dispensed with the hovering nurses, promising his personal physician to install one at Andover tomorrow.
Tonight, however, he had to face Maggie.
Andover was lit up to welcome him. A hundred windows were visible from the entrance road that skirted the Wye. Richard loved driving down the stretch of old oaks until he came to the curve of the road. There, he always asked his driver to stop so he could experience the sight of Andover once again.
He loved his home. If he could, he'd never venture from it. Separation made him even more conscious of the beauty of the sandstone colored building that had been in his family for fifteen generations.
The Wye flowed under the arch of the south battlements, ensuring a steady water supply even when under siege. Two turrets flanked the outer courtyard, the curtain wall construction still boasting broken brick and chipped mortar where cannonball was leveled against Andover during the Civil War.
His home reminded him of all the best and brightest that was Britain, a certain indomitable resilience and a belief that what was here yesterday would be here tomorrow.
Maggie was there, waiting for him. Maggie, who'd nearly given her life to save his.
He sat in the back of the car, looking out at the lights shining yellow and welcoming, being able to envision each of the rooms he'd soon walk through on the way to his suite.
A journey once stiff with guilt.
People who knew the truth urged him to forget it, to go about his life, to forgive her if he could. The problem was not in forgiving Eleanor but himself, a revelation he’d realized in Texas.
Until Scotland, Eleanor had been his eternal ghost. He could imagine her perfectly sculptured body exquisitely dressed, her long black hair arranged to frame the classic beauty of her strong features. Without much effort, he could envision her smile, the invitation she issued with those intense blue eyes of hers. That smile of hers, enchanting, almost real.
Until Maggie, he’d given up all hope of being free of Eleanor.
He sat watching the house where it had all happened, knowing that the next hours would be the most important he'd ever spent within those walls. He hesitated giving the signal to enter the broad circular drive, was reluctant to mount the twenty-seven steps leading to the pillared Georgian facade of his ancestral home.
Maggie, oh Maggie, what are the words to say to you? Did he beg for forgiveness or understanding?
He flicked his hand in the air - a gesture of resolve more than courage. The car slid forward like a feline hunter on muscular haunches.
Richard found himself tensing, the broad muscles of his back and his neck tightening with something like fear. Except that a royal duke was never afraid, was he? He was courageous and fearless, a symbol of the world's longest held monarchy, an icon to history, power, and enormous wealth.
He was only a man, a fact few people seemed to remember.
Except for Maggie, he might have forgotten himself.