The Princess Affair (4 page)

“Cheery, isn’t she?” Harris muttered as she paused to look around the room, and Kerry struggled to keep a straight face as Spencer’s gaze swept over them.

“Good luck and God speed,” she concluded, relinquishing the podium once again to Brent. Within minutes, he explained, they would be joined by Rhodes scholars in their second or third years who had agreed to mentor the incoming class. Free of Spencer’s iron grip on the crowd, Kerry barely registered his words; she was enjoying the atmosphere of the room, which boasted several clusters of high-backed leather chairs between walls lined with bookshelves.

A table nearby held several platters of sandwiches and pitchers of iced tea. As they mingled and ate, Brent made the rounds. Kerry was amused to notice that Harris immediately stopped shoveling sandwiches into his mouth at Brent’s approach.

He extended his hand to her first. “Brent Franklin. It’s a pleasure.”

“Kerry Donovan. And this is Harris Whistler.”

Brent’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he regarded her. “Kerry. Out of Princeton. Studying sustainable architecture. Soccer player.” He flashed a perfect smile. “Welcome.”

“That’s impressive,” Kerry said as Brent turned his attention to Harris.

“And you led the U.S. eight-man boat to a silver medal in last year’s Olympics.”

Harris blinked. “I suppose I did.”

“Fantastic race. I was never good enough to make it out of the C-boat back in college, but I still follow the sport.”

Kerry excused herself and made her way to the periphery of the room. Harris’s attraction was readily apparent, and she wanted to give him some space. She was also curious about the books. From what she could make out from their spines, they were all about Oxford in some respect; histories of the town and university, biographies of presidents and famous professors emeritus, proceedings from conferences held on the grounds. She was thumbing through a history of the city during the Roman period, when she heard a soft, “Excuse me,” and turned to the sight of a Latina woman dressed in skinny jeans and a pale yellow blouse. Gold teardrop earrings matched the necklace at her throat.

“Kerry, right? I’m Julia. Your peer mentor, or whatever it is they’re calling us.”

“Hi.” Kerry slid her book back onto the shelf, smiling at the mild self-deprecation in Julia’s tone. Her palm was smooth, her smile open and expressive.

“Did you enjoy London?”

“It was a whirlwind. When I wasn’t in the meetings, I was sightseeing.”

Julia nodded. “I can empathize. I went overboard at the theater during my orientation week.”

“Is that what you’re studying? Drama?”

“The oversimplified answer is yes.” Julia laughed quietly. “I can give you all the gory intellectual details later.”

Kerry felt herself warming to Julia’s easygoing manner. “How long have you been here?”

“This is my third year.” Julia angled her body toward the door. “Like you, I’m in residence at Balliol. Whenever you’re ready, I can show you Holywell Manor, where we graduate students live.”

Kerry smiled in relief. “That sounds perfect. I’m more than ready to be done living out of suitcases.”

She collected her roller bag and sketched a wave in the air to Harris, then followed Julia out the front door of the House. They paused on the steps.

“Would you like to go the long way or the short way? The Manor is only a five-minute walk from here, but I can take you on a longer loop past Balliol, if you’d like.”

“Let’s do the long way. My legs are still stiff from the bus, and I’d love to see Balliol.”

The early September day had turned warm and humid, and Kerry quickly stripped off her raincoat. As they walked, she took note of street signs and landmarks. Rhodes House was situated in an area dominated by academic buildings and other colleges, but as they turned toward the south, more restaurants and trendy clothing shops began to appear. As they turned onto Broad Street, Julia pointed across the street.

“There’s the Bodleian. You’ll be calling it ‘the Bod’ within a week. And behind this wall to our left is Balliol. You’ll be able to see it best from the gate, in just a moment.”

A rush of exultation skittered beneath Kerry’s skin as her gaze shifted between the checkered courtyard of one of the world’s most famous libraries, and the high stone wall that enclosed her new alma mater. There was so much to explore, and she almost suggested that Julia leave her at this crossroads. But that was silly; she had her suitcase in hand and needed to settle in before she did anything else. The term didn’t officially begin for another week. She had time.

Julia must have noticed her dragging steps. “Did you want to stop by the college now?”

“I do, but I also want to get rid of these bags. Let’s keep going.”

She peered eagerly through the rails of the fence surrounding the Bodleian as they passed it. Across the courtyard, she had a perfect view of the library’s main entrance, the Tower of the Five Orders. Designed to be an architectural chimera, the tower had been built by using each of the five classical modes. She couldn’t wait to see it up close.

“So,” said Julia as they crossed the next street, “In your London sightseeing, did you make it to the Tower of London? Are the ravens still there?”

Kerry flashed back to the gleaming black birds that had somehow managed to look regal despite being earthbound. “Still there, wings clipped. The monarchy is safe.”

“I’m glad to hear it, especially given the guest of honor at tonight’s reception. Did you hear?”

“Oh, I heard. Princess Alexandra. Everyone’s been abuzz.”

“I’m glad they’re excited. Some of the people in my year have gotten awfully pretentious about the whole thing.”

“How so?”

Julia’s mouth puckered as though she had eaten something sour. “Sasha—you know that’s what they call her, right?—is not exactly the brain trust of the monarchy. A few of my peers would have preferred someone more…academic.”

Kerry considered how to reply without offending either Julia or her friends. “I’m not much for pretension,” she finally said.

“I agree. Who cares about her IQ? It’ll be exciting to meet her.”

Kerry considered what she knew about the British monarchy. In preparation for this trip, she had done some reading about the current royal family, the Carlisles. King Andrew prided himself on being both an intellectual monarch deeply interested in the affairs of the nations for whom he acted as head of state. He had a doctorate in political science and took as active a role in policy-making as Parliament would allow. His oldest child, Arthur, appeared to be following in his footsteps; he had just completed a master’s degree in public policy and was about to begin a stint in the Royal Air Force. The King’s youngest daughter, Elizabeth, was also rumored to be quite bright. But Sasha, the middle child, had cultivated a reputation as a hellion since she was very young. After barely making it out of Oxford, she had gone into the party planning business. The tabloids loved her.

“Here’s The Turf,” Julia was saying as she gestured down an alley to her right. “One of my favorite pubs in town. They say it’s been around since the thirteenth century.”

“Really?” Kerry peered down the narrow lane, marveling at the existence of a tavern that was three times as old as her homeland. “I’ll have to check it out.”

As they continued on, they discussed the usual topics. Julia hailed from California and had attended Stanford. She’d been an all-American swimmer but had switched to water polo since her arrival in Oxford.

“Have you heard anything about a Balliol women’s soccer team? The website looked promising, but I don’t know how up-to-date it is.”

Julia raised her sculpted eyebrows. “This is England. Soccer, or should I say, ‘football,’ is life. I’m sure our women’s club will be thrilled to have you.” She gestured to the large park across the street. “Speaking of which, those are the college’s athletic fields. Very convenient for us, because here we are.”

They halted before a sprawling stone house framed by twin gables. A matching wall extended from both sides, enclosing a large yard and several outbuildings. The front door was made of dark-stained wood, and as Julia produced a key, Kerry trailed her fingertips over the small placard that read, “Holywell Manor.”

As the door opened, Kerry realized that her new home was much larger than she had originally expected. The Manor wasn’t one large building, but four separate wings in the Queen Anne style, enclosing a grassy courtyard crisscrossed by gravel paths. Immediately to her right, an arrow pointed toward the office. Once she had received her own key, Julia led her down a corridor to the middle common room.

“My favorite place to read,” she said, preceding Kerry into a rectangular chamber whose windows looked out onto the gardens. Oil portraits hung on the walls and deep couches upholstered in navy velvet surrounded a wooden coffee table. The scent of the air—a combination of wood polish and book bindings—reminded Kerry of her own favorite study spot in Princeton’s library. She tested out the nearest couch and smiled. Even more comfortable than it looked.

“I love it.”

Julia perched on the table. “Do you want to just drop off your suitcase and grab a bite to eat? Or would you prefer to spend some time settling in?”

“I’d like to get squared away in my room, I think. But can I buy you lunch tomorrow? I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“We’ll go Dutch. Let’s figure out the details at the reception tonight.”

After exchanging phone numbers with Julia and receiving directions about how to find her room, Kerry made her way down the corridor and turned into the north wing of the Manor. Too impatient to hunt down the elevator, she dragged her bag up the stairs to the second floor and scanned the doors until she found the one that now belonged to her.

When she opened it, she was bedazzled. Early afternoon sunlight streamed through windowpanes that looked out onto the garden, creating flickering golden patterns on her bed’s blue coverlet. The room was small but cheery: the bed was pressed up under the windows, and a large desk filled the opposite corner. A few shelves had been built into the wall just above it. The bathroom was barely large enough to turn around in, but she’d manage.

Kerry left her bag in the middle of the room and flopped down onto the bed. Her bed. For the next three years. She stared up at the plaster ceiling, gaze following a hairline crack that ran diagonally into the far corner. And then she closed her eyes, allowing her other senses free rein. The aroma of clean linens mingled with the sharp scent of pine outside her window. A sudden trill of birdsong grew louder, then faded. The soft feather pillow cradled her neck.

The stillness of the air pervaded her body, and she sank into the mattress’s embrace. For now, she could allow herself to enjoy this. To rest. Soon enough, life would resume the frenetic pace to which she was accustomed, but for now, there was nothing wrong with savoring the peace of the moment.

The monotonous ticking of the grandfather clock had long since burrowed into Sasha’s head, making her want to murder someone. Preferably her father’s insufferable secretary, who resembled an emperor penguin in both physiology and dress, and who shot her a dirty look every time her phone buzzed with an incoming text message. As Miranda’s name popped up once again on the screen, she almost stuck out her tongue at the man, whose name she could never remember. Clearly, he didn’t approve of her. Surprise, surprise.

Still waiting?

Sasha rolled her eyes as she typed out her affirmative response. Almost one hour after she’d been abruptly summoned to her father’s office in Buckingham, she still sat in the anteroom. Apparently, the Speaker of the House of Lords was in with him, but she suspected they were having a nice chat about the most recent cricket results while she sat stewing. King Andrew was adept at playing people off one another in order to get what he wanted. In this case, Sasha suspected that he wanted to remind her of who was in charge. As if she could ever forget.

Finally, the door swung open to reveal two men, both dressed in expensive suits. The first, pale with close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, was rather stout with jowls that hung over his starched blue shirt. The King followed close behind, and the physical differences between them were striking. Sasha had often heard the media describe her father as “leonine,” and it was an appropriate adjective. Tall and tan, he boasted a mane of honey-colored hair long enough to brush the deep gray collar of his jacket. Deep-set, piercing blue eyes looked out from under thick brows in a face most referred to as “striking” rather than “handsome.”

“Alexandra.” The Lord Speaker had a rather thin, nasal voice. “How lovely to see you.”

“My Lord Cranmer.”

Sasha rose and extended a hand as he approached, preparing herself for the inevitable. When he brought her fingers up to his lips, she decided to be thankful that he wasn’t one of the old letches who liked to slip a bit of tongue into the so-called chivalric gesture. As far as she was concerned, chivalry was long dead—if it had ever even existed in the first place.

After a few platitudes, Cranmer left. Immediately, the tone in the room shifted. Her father beckoned for her to join him in his office, forcing her to trail in his wake. No matter what time of day she visited him, the room always felt constricting. Paneled in dark oak and lit by lamps hanging on chains from the ceiling, it fairly reeked of chauvinism.

Once she had closed the door behind her, he gestured to one of the chairs directly in front of his desk. They were pretty to look at—old and probably famous in some way—but incredibly uncomfortable. Worse, they were fairly low to the ground, so that when she sat in one and her father took his place behind the desk, he was looking down at her. Crossing one leg over the other, she tried to fight down her rising tide of frustration by letting out a slow breath.

Her father tapped a folder on his desk, then slid it over. When Sasha flipped it open, she found a calendar on the left side and several pages of text on the right. Immediately, the words began to blur together, and she blinked rapidly in an effort to dispel the effect. If she could only stay calm, it would be easier to focus.