Даниэла Стил - Royal

Lucy still believed she had done the right thing, taking her because she loved her, particularly since they didn’t know about Charlotte’s clandestine marriage to Henry Hemmings. It would all be forgotten now, and she and Annie could go on with their lives. She had left just in time, which was providential. She didn’t write back to the housekeeper, and didn’t want to pursue a friendship with them and maintain a connection. She wanted to put Ainsleigh behind her. It was history now. And they could have exposed her. Fortunately they didn’t know about the marriage, which would have changed things if they did, Lucy had turned the page and started a new life where no one knew her. At the Markhams’, she was just another war widow with a child. There were thousands of them all over England, some of whom had truly been married, and some not and only claimed to be. There were too many of them to ask questions or garner much interest. The Ainsleigh servants were happy for Lucy and Annie.

And no one at the Markham estate had questioned Lucy about Annie. They just thought she was a pretty little thing, and they never commented that she looked nothing like her mother. Lucy was a tall girl with a big frame, and despite her size at birth, Annie already had the delicate frame and features of her natural mother. Lucy could already see how much she looked like Charlotte. She had the face of an angel and white blond hair, with sky blue eyes. She was going to be a beauty one day, and she was already small for her age, which Lucy blamed on rationing and how little food they’d had in Yorkshire at the end of the war. The restrictions of rationing hadn’t been lifted yet, but they ate well at the Markhams’, who managed to feed their employees plentifully. And Lucy gave whatever treats she had to Annie. She never minded depriving herself for her baby. Lucy had convinced herself by then that Charlotte’s family would have rejected her because of how her birth came about, and everyone at Ainsleigh believed it too. Annie would have been the child of a regrettable mistake, a disgrace they would have buried and probably put her somewhere with people who didn’t love her as Lucy did. Lucy had no trouble justifying what she’d done by taking her. Her love for the child made it seem right to her. In her mind, love was stronger than blood or ancestry. She might not have a royal life, or live in a palace, but little Annie had a mother who loved her deeply. What more could she want or need? Lucy had no regrets. She never let herself think about it now. Annie was her baby. And anything she’d had to do to become her mother seemed right to her. And like Charlotte, she would go to her grave with her secrets.

—

The service for Princess Charlotte was a private one with only her sisters and parents present. They buried her at Sandringham because she had loved it. The queen was devastated when they brought her home, and Victoria mourned her even more deeply than the others, remembering every unkind word and criticism she had ever uttered, which cut through her now like knives, each time she remembered one of them. She had even accused her of fakery with her asthma, and in the end it had killed her. It was a sad day for all of them when Charlotte came home at last. The king felt it acutely. She had been his most favored child because she was the youngest and had such a light spirit and gentle manner. It was hard to imagine that she would never dance through their palaces again, and her delicate little face wouldn’t make them smile.

It was more than a year after her death when they buried her at Sandringham, and seeing her casket lowered into the ground tore at their hearts. She would be forever mourned by the family that loved her. The queen blamed herself for sending her to the country, but how could they have known what terrible fate would befall her there? It still shocked them that the earl and countess had died as well, and their son. It was a tragic story, and a loss none of the Windsors would forget. Her mother visited her grave every day, until they went back to London. Then life went on, with their duties to their war-torn country, but Princess Charlotte would live in their hearts forever. And the joy she spread around her in her short life would burn brightly. And none of them imagined even for an instant that she had a child who was the image of her, living as the daughter of a housemaid in Kent. The child was unknown to them, and lost forever.

Chapter 6

By Annie’s second birthday, Lucy felt as though they had lived on the Markham estate forever. They were exemplary employers, and Lucy had worked for them for a year by then. She was diligent in her duties, and Mrs. Finch, the housekeeper, had increased them. Lucy was twenty, and was mature beyond her years, with the added responsibility of being a mother so young, and having no family of her own. Annie was the darling of the other servants, who loved to play with her and spoil her. She had a sunny, loving personality, and they frequently said she looked like a little fairy, dancing around her mother with her big blue eyes and light blond hair. Lucy always said she looked just like her father, to explain why she looked nothing like her. She looked remarkably like Charlotte, and it appeared that she had inherited her diminutive size as well. Lucy was big-boned and solid.

The rest of the house staff was always knitting something for her, or making a bonnet, or carving little pull toys she could drag along behind her. She would clap her hands and chortle with delight whenever they gave her something or hugged her. They loved seeing her when Lucy brought her back from the farm at night after dinner. She let her play in the servants’ hall for a few minutes and then took her upstairs, bathed her, and put her to bed. Lucy sang to her as she fell asleep, and would look at her adoringly in her crib during the night. She still seemed like an angel who had dropped from the sky to Lucy, and she thanked heaven every day for the gift of this child. Annie was her passion and the love of her life. She loved her as she would have Henry, if he’d let her. But now, that no longer mattered. He was gone, and she had Annie, for the rest of her life. What she felt for her was better than the love of any man.

She ran into Jonathan Baker from the stables from time to time, when she had reason to leave the house on an errand for Mrs. Finch, or for their employers. Annabelle Markham was spoiled and expected a great deal from her employees, but she was also a fair and generous woman and rewarded them when appropriate. They gave all of their employees handsome gifts at Christmas from the store they owned. She loved her home, her husband, and her children, took no interest in the business, which her husband ran so efficiently, and was so lucrative. It was the most successful store in London. She had a fifth child a year after Lucy had come to work for them, and Lucy saw the baby nurse walking in the gardens with the fancy pram. She let Lucy bring Annie to see the new baby, and commented on how prettily Annie was dressed. Lucy had made the dress herself, copied from children’s clothes she saw in magazines.

“She looks like a little princess,” Annabelle Markham remarked one day, as Lucy smiled proudly.

“She is a princess,” Lucy always said firmly, as though she believed it. And Jonathan gave Annie rides on the pony the Markhams had bought for their children. She always squealed with delight when Jonathan set her on a horse of any size and held her. She had no fear of horses or anything else, and she would cry when he took her off. Lucy worried that she’d be horse mad like her mother, which was a luxury she couldn’t indulge in and didn’t want to. She still thought them dangerous beasts.

Jonathan took them to a nearby lake to go swimming that summer when he had a day off, and taught Annie to swim like a little fish. She had no fear of water either, and it touched Lucy to see such a big man so gentle with a child as young as Annie. He loved the time he spent with her, and with Lucy, and he said it made him dream of having children of his own.