Hey guys! I'm so so sorry this is so late! I fell asleep last night, was too exhausted. I'm really sorry! My sincere apologies for the late post! So yep, let's start! Wild Princess is coming August 1, 2012 from Avon Books. It is a Victorian novel of Queen Victoria's daughters.
"In The Wild Princess, Mary Hart Perry spins a marvelous tale about the life of the real Princess Louise, Queen Victoria’s most unconventional daughter—and the fascinating events that might have taken place between the cracks of recorded history. Full of romance and suspense, The Wild Princess is the life Louise could have—should have—had. Mary Hart Perry has created a masterly historical novel."
~Mary Jo Putney, New York Times bestselling author of No Longer a Gentleman, and Dark Destiny as M. J. Putney.
"Romantic, exciting, historically accurate and deliciously imaginative, Mary Hart Perry's THE WILD PRINCESS is a lush and entertaining read that truly delivers. Perry creates a fascinating portrait of Princess Louise -- artist, wild child and modern thinker caught in the confines of her mother's strict court -- and immerses the reader in a vivid Victorian setting. I devoured the book and I'm eager to read more about Victoria's daring daughters!"
"THE WILD PRINCESS is a fascinating, intriguing glimpse into a royal household. There is the public image and then there is the reality that Mary Hart Perry brilliantly brings to life."
Osborne House, Isle of
Wight
Wednesday, January 23,
1901
My dearest Edward,
I write to you with a grieving
heart. My emotions are so a-jumble at this moment I can barely stop my hand
from trembling long enough to put pen to paper. As all of London wakes to the
sad news, you too must by now be aware that Victoria, Queen by the Grace of God
of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Defender of the
Faith, Empress of India—my mother—has passed from this life. Last night I stood
at her bedside along with my surviving sisters and brothers, the many
grandchildren, and those most favored among her court. We bid our final
good-byes, and she drifted away. Among us was the devoted Colonel the Lord
Edward Pelham-Clinton, who delivers this letter and accompanying documents, by
hand, into your possession.
The
doctors say it was a cerebral hemorrhage, not uncommon for a woman in her 80’s,
but I believe she was just tired and ready to rest after reigning these
tumultuous sixty-four years, many of them without her beloved Prince Consort,
Albert, my father, who died before you were born.
She
was not a physically affectionate mother, demanded far more than she ever gave,
often drove me to anger and tears, and very nearly destroyed my life…more than
once. Yet I did, in my own way, love her.
The enclosed manuscript is my means
for setting straight in my own mind the alarming events of several critical
years in my life. But more than that, it will bring to you, although
belatedly—and for that I apologize—the
truth. Your mother, my dearest friend, wished to tell you of these matters long
ago. Indeed, it was she who compiled most of the information herein, using her
rare skills as an observer of human nature and, later in life, as a gifted
investigative journalist. I have filled in the few facts she was unable to
uncover on her own. For selfish reasons I begged her to keep our secrets a
while longer…and a while longer. Then she too departed from this world for a
better one, leaving no one to press me to reveal these most shameful deeds.
Indeed, Edward dear, I would not even now strip bare the deceptions played out
in my lifetime, had they not so intimately involved you.
Do these words shock you? If so,
then you had best burn these pages and live the rest of your life in ignorance.
But as I remember, you were a curious lad, and so I expect you will read on.
However, before you go further, I must ask of you a solemn favor. What I am
about to reveal is for your knowledge alone, that you might better understand
both the gifts and the sins passed along to you. To share this account with others
would cause scandal so damaging that our government would surely topple.
Therefore, I implore you to choose—either destroy the enclosed manuscript this
instant without reading it, or do the same after reading in private.
Regardless
of your decision, I pray you will ever think of me as your devoted godmother
and friend, and not hate me for the things I have done to protect you or, on my
own behalf, simply to survive.
Be
assured of my love,
Princess
Louise, duchess of Argyll
March 21, 1871—Windsor
Castle, St. George’s Chapel
Under siege, that’s what we
are, Louise thought as she observed the mayhem
beyond the church’s massive oak doors. Indeed the week-long crush of boisterous
visitors had become truly dangerous.
“There
must be thousands of them,” she murmured, more to herself than to any of her
bridesmaids clustered around her.
Her
brother Bertie gently closed the door, shutting out the cheers of the crowd.
“It’s all right. The guardsmen have things well in hand.”
Scores
of well-wishers from London and the surrounding countryside had arrived on foot
and horseback, along with souvenir vendors, draysmen with cartloads of
sightseers and hawkers of ale, roasted potatoes and meat pies. They clogged
Berkshire’s country roads, converging on Windsor, making virtual prisoners of
the royal family and their guests within the great castle’s walls.
Many
travelers hadn’t been content with a tourist’s hasty view of Windsor in the
days before the wedding. They’d set up crude campsites outside the walls, lit
bonfires that blazed through the night. Toasts to the bride and groom turned
into drunken revelry. Hundreds pressed against groaning castle gates, hoping
for a chance glimpse of the royal couple. Crowd control, never before an issue
at a royal wedding, became a necessity. A nervous Queen Victoria called up her
Hussars and a fleet of local constables to reinforce the castle’s guardsmen.
Louise
stepped away from the chapel’s doors, fingering the delicate Honiton lace of
her gown. Strangely, she wasn’t worried about being hurt by the mob of well
wishers. What concerned her was what her mother’s subjects might expect of
her.
To do
her duty as a princess, she supposed, whatever that might mean to them. Or
simply to “be a good girl and don’t make trouble,” as her mother had so often
scolded her since her earliest years.
Standing
at the very foot of the church’s long nave, Louise tried to reassure herself
that all the pomp and fuss over her marriage was of no consequence. It would
pass with the end of this day. The mob would disperse. The groundsmen clear
away the mountains of trash. The important thing was—she had agreed to wed the
marquess of Lorne as her mother wished. She was doing the responsible thing for
her family. Surely, all would be well.
Louise
rested her fingertips lightly on Bertie’s arm. The Prince of Wales stood ready
to escort her down the aisle. She desperately wished her father were still
alive to give her away. On the other hand, Papa might have talked her mother
into letting her wait a little longer to marry. But, of the six girls in their
family, it was her turn. In the queen’s mind, Louise at 23 was already
teetering on the slippery verge of spinsterhood. An unwed, childless daughter
knocking about the palace was a waste of good breeding stock.
Louise
felt Bertie step forward, cued by the exultant chords of organ music swelling
to the strains of the Wedding March’s intricate harp obbligato. She matched his
stride, moving slowly down the long rose petal-strewn quire toward her
bridegroom.
Another trembling step closer
to the altar, then another. Wedding night jitters? Was that
the source of her edginess?
Definitely
not. The panic swelling in her breast could have little to do with a bride’s
fragile insecurity regarding her wifely duties in bed. Louise felt anything but
fragile and more than a little eager for her husband’s touch. Nevertheless, she
sensed that something about the day was disturbingly wrong. Sooner or later,
she feared it would snap its head around and bite her.
She
closed her eyes for a few seconds and drew three deep breaths while letting her
feet keep their own pace with the music.
“Are you
all right?” Her brother’s voice.
She
forced a smile for his benefit. “Yes, Bertie.”
“He’s a
good man.” The Prince had trimmed his dark mustache and looked elegantly regal,
dressed in the uniform of their mother’s Hussars. He had initially stood
against the marriage, believing his sister should hold out for a royal match.
But now he seemed resigned and loath to spoil her day.
“I know.
Of course he’s good.”
“You
like him, don’t you?” Not love him.
They both knew love didn’t enter into the
equation for princesses. The daughters of British royals were bred to
marry the heads of state, forge international alliances, produce the next
generation to sit upon the thrones of Europe.
“I do
like him.”
“Then
you’ll be fine.”
“Yes,”
she said firmly. “I will.” Somehow.
Three of
her five bridesmaids—all in white, bedecked with garlands of hothouse lilies,
rosebuds, and camellias—led the way down the long aisle, leaving the two
youngest girls in Louise’s wake to control the heavy satin train behind her.
The diamond coronet Lorne had given her as a wedding present held in place the
lace veil she herself had designed.
She felt
the swish of stiff petticoats against her limbs. The coolness of the air,
captured within the church’s magnificent soaring Gothic arches, chilled her
bare shoulders. Yards upon yards of precious hand-worked lace, seemed to weight
her down, as though holding her back from the altar. An icy clutch of jewels at
her throat felt suddenly too tight, making it hard to breathe.
Her nose
tingled at the sweet waxy scent of thousands of burning candles mixed with
perfume as her guests rose to view the procession. The pulse of the organ’s
bass notes vibrated in her clenched stomach. Ladies of the Court, splendid in
silks and brocades and jewels, the gentlemen in dignified black or charcoal
grey frock coats, turned heads her way in anticipation—a dizzy blur of smiling,
staring faces as she passed them by.
But a
few stood out in sharp relief against the dazzling splendor: Her dear friend,
Amanda Locock beside her handsome doctor-husband, their little boy wriggling in
Amanda’s arms. The always dour Prime Minister Gladstone. A grim-faced Napoleon
III, badly reduced in health after his recent defeat by the Prussians. Her
brothers and sisters: Affie, then Alice and Vicky with their noble spouses. A
predictably bored looking Arthur, always solemn Lenchen and young, fidgety Leo.
Bertie’s lovely Danish wife Alix clasped a hand over each of their two little
boys to keep them quiet.
Louise
lifted her gaze to the raised box to her left where she knew her mother would
be seated. Beatrice, youngest of Louise’s eight siblings, sat close by the
queen, gazing down wide-eyed at the ceremony. Victoria herself, a plump figure
in black mourning muslin six years after her husband’s death, her grim costume
relieved only by the rubies and blues of the Order of the Garter star clipped
over her left breast, looked down on the wedding party as though a goddess from
Mount Olympus.
They’d
all come to witness Louise’s union with the striking young man waiting for her
at the chapel’s altar. The marquess of Lorne. John Douglas Sutherland Campbell.
A stranger to her in many ways, yet soon to be her wedded mate. Beside him stood his kinsmen in striking
Campbell-green kilts, sword scabbards strapped to hips, hats cocked forward.
Louise
felt an almost equal urge to rush into her intended’s arms…and to turn around
and run back out through the chapel doors. Into the fresh spring air, breaking
through the crowd to escape down Windsor’s famous Long Walk and into the
countryside. To freedom.
But was
that even a possibility now?
All of
the country had lapped up news of her betrothal as eagerly as a cat does cream.
Hadn’t the newspapers been chock full of personal details for months? The
chaperoned carriage rides through Hyde Park. The elaborate French menu for the
wedding feast. Everything, from the details of her gown to advertisements
placed by a London perfume manufacturer announcing their newest fragrance, Love-Lorne, had been gossiped about in
and outside of the Court.
And then
all of that fled her mind as Bertie deposited her before the archbishop and
beside Lorne. Her husband-to-be stood breathtakingly handsome in his dark blue
dress uniform of the Royal Argyllshire Artillery with its bits of gold braid,
burnished buttons, and shining black leather boots that shaped his long legs to
above the knees. A silver-hilted sword hung from the wide black patent belt
that encircled his narrow waist. His hair, a glorious pale blond mane brushed
back from his face, long enough to feather over his collar, looked slightly
risqué and tempted her fingertips.
He took
her hand in his. At his touch, she finally settled inside herself.
During
the ceremony Louise was aware of her bridegroom’s eyes turning frequently to
her. She did her best to meet his gaze, to bring a little smile to her lips and
hope that some of it slipped into her eyes for him. Like her, he had blue eyes.
But, while hers were a soft shade, the mesmerizing sapphire brilliance of the
young marquess’s eyes never failed to startle people on meeting him for the
first time. He was a Scot, one of her mother’s northern subjects. When his
father passed, he would become the duke of Argyll. A minor title, but better
than none at all in her mother’s view. For Louise’s part, titles were of no
consequence. They marked a man as neither good nor bad, kind nor cruel, rich
nor poor.
She had
every reason to believe they’d get along well, even though they’d not once been
left alone together. Still, their escorts had been discreet, allowing them to
speak freely. Lorne had even shyly kissed her on the cheek, last night. In
time, they might fall in love. She’d like that. And even if they didn’t, he
would give her the children she so longed for. Life was full of compromises.
The
archbishop was speaking in that sing-song voice of his that was at once soft
yet somehow carried to the very back of the grandest church. Louise let the
words wash over her, a warm and calming stream. She daydreamed of her
honeymoon—Lorne making tender love to her, his soft hands opening her gown to
touch the places on her body that most longed for his caresses. And she would
discover ways to please him.
The
images in her mind brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. She raised her
eyelashes shyly to glance up at him in anticipation.
Their
gazes met.
He
grinned and winked. Did he know what she was thinking?
It was
at that moment something odd caught her eye. A motion off to her left and
above. Startled, she turned her head just far enough to take in her mother’s
box.
John
Brown, once a lowly ghillie in the queen’s stables at Balmoral in Scotland, and
now her personal attendant and self-appointed bodyguard, stood behind Victoria
physically blocking a man who seemed to be trying to force his way into queen’s
box. A frisson of alarm shot through Louise.
“Steady,”
Lorne whispered in her ear, grasping her hand. “Brown’s handling it.”
The
archbishop, too, seemed to have noticed the disturbance, but he droned on, the
ultimate performer under pressure.
Louise
glimpsed Victoria waving off Brown. The stranger bent down as though to whisper
something in the queen’s ear. He wore rough riding clothes, a long dung-brown
overcoat of a less than fashionable cut, in what appeared to be scuffed
leather. He looked unshaven. As if he hadn't bothered to even run a comb
through his spiky black hair. In one hand he held not a stove-pipe top hat that
was the only acceptable headwear for a gentleman in London—but a strange
wide-brimmed style of black felt hat she’d never seen on any head in all of
England.
Louise
turned back to face the bishop, fearful of missing the rest of her own wedding.
The next time she glanced back, the stranger had gone.
Lorne
squeezed her hand, as if to say, All is
well.
Was it?
She shivered but forced a smile in return.
Then all
at once, the archbishop was giving them his blessing. A joyous “Hurrah!” rang
out in the chapel. Her new husband kissed her sweetly on the lips, and every
concern fled her mind at this excruciatingly joyful moment.
All she
could think of was the night that lay before them—her first night as a married
woman.
2
Amanda
Locock stood beside the dressing table in the bridal suite at Claremont House
while Lady Caroline Barrington unpinned Louise’s hair and brushed it into soft
golden-brown waves down her back. "I'm so sorry about bringing Eddie with
me to your wedding dinner and concert,” Amanda said.
The
music that followed the lavish meal at Windsor had been one formal event too
many for a restless four year old. Amanda walked him up and down the great
echo-y hallway outside the grand salon until he’d fallen asleep on her
shoulder. She’d been able to bring him back inside in time for her to hear the
lovely Bach violin solo, played so beautifully by Herr Joachim.
“You
know how unpredictable my husband is. He promised to watch Eddie while I stayed
for the reception and concert, but one of his patients was in urgent need of
him."
Louise waved off her concern, reached up and ruffled
the little boy’s hair. No longer a toddler, Eddie still loved to be propped on
his mother's hip. He buried his face shyly against her breast now, looking
pink-eyed and exhausted by the day's activities.
"You know I love to see Eddie any chance I
get." Louise opened the drawer in her dressing table and pulled out a tin
of salt-water taffies. "What you need, my darling, is a little more energy
to get you through the rest of the day."
"More sugar?" Amanda rolled her eyes.
"Henry has this notion that my indulging the child with sweets keeps him
up late at night." But she laughed as he selected with great concentration
a single candy from the tin. "Here, love, let me unwrap that for you. Then
you go sit on your favorite chair over there and suck on it while I talk to
your godmother."
"He's growing so fast," Louise said, her
eyes misting with affection as she watched the child stride away from them.
"Soon he'll be all grown up."
"I know. That's why I'm particularly happy with
the news I have to tell you." Amanda bounced on her toes and felt she
might burst like an iridescent soap bubble with happiness.
"News?"
"I'm with child.” She giggled at Louise’s shriek
of joy. “Henry says the baby will be
here in August." They had tried for a brother or sister for Eddie for
years, but after miscarrying two babies she’d nearly given up hope. “I didn’t
say anything to you sooner because of the other times, you know.” The thought
of her lost babes nearly undid her.
Louise shot to her feet, tears in her eyes, nearly
knocking over Lady Car in her haste to reach Amanda and clasp her in her arms.
“Oh, my dear, I’m so happy for you. Maybe a little girl then?”
“We’ll see. Why so weepy? Are they tears of happiness
for me?”
“Of course.”
Amanda knew better. “You and Lorne will have your own
brood in no time. You’ll be tripping over little ones.”
Louise laughed and wiped away her teardrops. “I’d
love that. Truly.”
“Your Royal Highness,” Lady Car interrupted with a
meaningful glance toward the door.
Louise smiled. “Yes, of course.” She turned back to
Amanda. “Speaking of Lorne.”
Amanda
gasped. “What a ninny I am, standing here gossiping with you while your new
husband is waiting to take you off to bed.” She laughed, thrilled for her
friend. No matter what Louise might think, Amanda was sure that marriage would
agree with her friend. Children meant so very much to her, and Lorne seemed
such a stable counterpart to Louise’s sometimes impulsive nature. “Come, Eddie.
Let’s run along and let your Auntie Loosy be alone with her new husband.” She
cast Louise a knowing look and teased, “Don’t need no pointers from an old
married woman, do you now?”
Louise lifted her gaze to the ceiling but watched
Lady Car out the door before she responded. “It’s not as though it’s the first
time; we both know that.”
Amanda smiled. “’deed I do.” She had started toward
the doorway when Louise reached out to clasp her arm and hold her back.
“What do I tell
him?” Louise’s face was tight with anxiety, her voice tremulous.
Before she answered, Amanda pushed her son a few
steps in front of her and out the door. “You wait for me right there,” she
instructed him then ducked back inside the bedchamber.”The truth,” she
whispered. “What else?”
“I was wondering, maybe I could just say…nothing?”
“And you think the man won’t realize you’re not a
virgin?” Amanda laughed. “That’s wishful, girl.” She winced. “Sorry I’m
reverting to my old ways, Your Highness.”
Louise cuffed her gently on the arm. “Stop that. We
stand on no formalities, you and I.” She sighed. “I had guessed, from things my
mother said in recent days, that Lorne might already know. So, why bring it up?
I mean, it’s quite possible she’s told him about my wild years.”
“About Donovan, you mean?”
Louise shut her eyes and nodded. “I truly did love
him, you know. To think he so suddenly took off. Not a word….”
“Most of them do, dear.”
“Well, I suppose I was naïve.”
“Very.”
“And I didn’t know that—“
“Now isn’t the time to blame yourself.” Amanda
touched Louise on the shoulder and gave her a comforting smile. “You were so
very young. We both were. Anyway Donovan is in the past. I can’t imagine Lorne
will reject you when he finds out you’ve had someone before him. Someone who
really didn’t matter. Or at least…he doesn’t now. Lorne’s such a sensible,
modern man.”
Louise bit down on her bottom lip and gave her an
anguished look. “I don’t know what to think.” She groaned. “But it would make
sense that Mama would have told him I’d had…experience. Why else would she
champion a marriage with someone who wasn’t a royal? A man with such a minor
title.”
“I don’t understand all the fuss.” Shaking her head,
Amanda peered out the door to check on Eddie. Lady Car was entertaining him,
coaxing the little boy to march up and down the hallway like a Beefeater. “You
make it sound as if it’s never been done before, marrying a commoner.”
Louise let out a bitter laugh. “Not for over three
hundred years has a child of an English monarch married outside of the royal
families of Europe.”
Amanda winced. She hadn’t realized that. “Then your
mother must have discussed this with him, don’t you think?”
Louise shook her head. “I just don’t know.” She
looked down at her hands, clenched in front of her. “I do need to tell him. I
know that, Amanda. It’s only fair. And if he is upset…well, I must then deal
with the consequences.”
Posts
