Love Finds You in Prince Edward Island Page 11

  “They said they’d come in the wagon and leave it at Donald Manden’s house.”

  “Can Papa walk from there to Government House with his bum leg?”

  “He says he can. He’s got the crutches. If he doesn’t want to take them in, I’ll go with him as far as the gate and he can leave them with me.”

  Molly frowned. “I wish I could help.”

  “You have.” Nathan unclasped the satchel and peeked inside. He gave a nod of satisfaction. “Perfect.”

  He turned, but Molly grabbed his jacket’s hem. “Wait! How do I get it back?”

  “Hmm. Are you getting off at suppertime?”

  “I don’t know. And Mr. Stark might need it tonight, for the ball at the Colonial Building.”

  “What do you suggest I do, then?”

  “Bring it to the back door this afternoon—the laundry entrance. But don’t ask for me. Ask for Allison.”

  “Allison? Why don’t I just ask for Mr. Stark?”

  “No, wait. I have a better idea. There’s a public gathering on the grounds this afternoon. The prince is supposed to make an appearance for all the people who couldn’t attend the levee. They expect a couple of thousand to attend. Bring it then. No one will notice you in the crush. I’ll meet you right here.”

  Nathan closed the satchel and hurried off down the crowded street. Molly watched only for a moment then turned back and closed the small gate, latching it securely from the inside.

  Her father had been suspicious of Peter’s intentions when he’d heard the young man was lending her a top hat. What would Papa say when he learned that the loan also included a formal jacket? Molly hadn’t been able to explain why she trusted Peter, but she did, as completely as she trusted Nathan—perhaps more.

  She hurried back to the house and decided to slip in through a side door, rather than risk Cook or Mrs. Bolton’s seeing her come in the back entrance. She hoped no one had missed her while she took the bag to Nathan.

  Too late, she realized the route she had chosen would take her into the grand hall. Several gentlemen were just descending the staircase. She leaped back and ducked into the nearest doorway, the one to the breakfast room where she’d met Peter a short time before. She prayed the men on the stairs would head straight for the drawing room and not come around this way and see her. Leaning forward, she peeked out toward the stairs and was relieved that they had turned away from her hiding place.

  “Well, now,” said a deep voice behind her. “What have we here?”

  Chapter Ten

  Molly swallowed with difficulty. Someone was behind her, in the room where she’d taken refuge. Her first thought was to run, but another voice spoke.

  “Come now, miss. We’re eager to see your face.”

  It couldn’t be. But if it was…one couldn’t disobey a request from the Prince of Wales.

  Slowly she turned, her cheeks flaming. The prince and the Duke of Newcastle sat on delicate, upholstered chairs, dressed in their finery. She guessed they were waiting until the last minute when they would go and stand in the drawing room to meet the hundreds of guests. She didn’t blame them for seeking a moment’s quiet before the storm.

  “Ah, it’s the pretty maid from last night’s dinner party. How fortunate we are, Duke.”

  Molly veiled her eyes with her lashes, unable to speak.

  Newcastle smiled. “You’re scaring her, Your Highness. Let the poor thing go. I expect she’s only trying to escape notice, and we’ve rather botched her plans.”

  Molly managed to gather fistfuls of her skirt and curtsy, though her knees shook. “I—I beg your pardon, Your Highness. Your Grace. Please forgive my intrusion.”

  Prince Albert Edward chuckled. “She speaks as prettily as she looks.”

  “Now, Bertie,” the duke said. His bushy beard and eyebrows gave him a rather fierce look, but his low tone was quite gentle.

  “I shan’t bite her head off.” The prince raised his chin. “What’s your name, girl?”

  She gulped. “Orland, Your Highness.”

  “Orland? Have you a Christian name?”

  “Aye. It’s…Molly.”

  “Molly Orland,” the prince said.

  She nodded. Her ears were likely to burst into flame, they burned so.

  “Not hiding from your mistress, are you?” A mischievous twinkle gleamed in his eyes.

  “Oh no, Your Highness. Some of the gentlemen were coming into the hall. I only meant to wait until they were gone and then go back to the kitchen.”

  “Get on your way, then, girl,” said Newcastle.

  Molly took a step backward, toward the hall.

  “No, wait, Molly Orland,” called the prince.

  “What are you about?” The duke’s frown sent a warning to the young prince.

  “I should like to dance with her at the ball this evening. She’s the prettiest young woman I’ve met here and closer to my age than any of the ladies who joined us last evening. I don’t mind dancing with the dowagers and the wives of the local dignitaries, but it would be nice to have one woman under thirty at the ball.”

  “You needn’t worry about that.” Newcastle’s voice sharpened. “Those locals have daughters, too, and I’m assured that the cream of the island’s beauty has been invited to provide you with partners this evening.”

  Molly kept her gaze on the carpet, but the warmth of a flush crept into her cheeks. Of course the likes of her would not be invited to dance with royalty. The prince was poking fun at her.

  Newcastle looked over at her. “You may go back to your duties, miss.”

  Obviously the duke agreed with her assessment. Inviting a parlor maid to a royal ball would be most unseemly.

  Her face still heated, Molly dipped another curtsy and backed out of the room. As soon as she’d stepped beyond the threshold, she turned and fled.

  “You’ve checked all the footmen’s attire?” the Earl of Washburn asked. “I’m sure Dundas’s household servants are competent, but sometimes these colonists aren’t quite up to scratch.”

  “Yes, sir. They’re all putting forth their best effort for us. Captain Lea has the complete list of guests.”

  “Good. You’ll keep things moving, Stark. I’ll pass folks to you, and you get them out the door. You understand.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The earl nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. “I know we can depend on you.” He went to stand slightly between Peter and where the prince would preside as the local gentlemen were presented to him. For once, the earl was part of the window dressing as much as Peter was—there to lend a hand if the prince or the Duke of Newcastle needed anything and to add to the elegance and pageantry of the occasion. The two young army officers—equerries, they were called—traveling with the prince as friends and companions, stood behind the prince’s position, as did Dr. Acland and General Bruce. When the prince entered, he would be the focus of attention, flanked by Governor Dundas and the Duke of Newcastle.

  Peter headed for the set of folding doors at the far end of the room, where men who had been presented to the prince would make their exit. He stood beneath a painting of a ship of the line under full sail and reminded himself that this event would last only an hour and he had one of the best jobs in the world, even though this part was not his favorite. The crowds of admirers who came to gawk at the prince made him feel hemmed in, sometimes almost to the point of suffocation. The more events he saw the prince endure with grace, the more he appreciated the young man. His training and natural good temper stood the Prince of Wales well under these circumstances. Peter was sure that if he were in Albert Edward’s place, he would lose patience and refuse to be constantly put on display.

  As Peter admired the intricate molding and plastered ceiling of the room, two figures came through the doors just to his left. He straightened, surprised that the prince and Newcastle had come in the back way. It made sense, though, for them to avoid the throng in the front hall. All of the prince’s retinue was gatheri
ng, and the steward, Dundas’s butler, and General Bruce were nearly ready to admit the first callers to the drawing room.

  “What was her name again?” the prince asked as they walked past Peter.

  “Whose name?” asked the duke.

  “The maid who burst into the morning room, of course.”

  “I didn’t bother to remember it.”

  “Molly something. I want her at the ball tonight.”

  Peter’s heart lurched and he clenched his teeth, determined not to reveal that he’d heard.

  “You’re joking, of course.” The duke stopped short and eyed the prince reproachfully.

  “No, I’m not. I was serious about that.”

  Peter stared straight ahead in his best “invisible footman” manner. Though his heart hammered, the prince and duke ignored him.

  “Look, Bertie, you’ll cause a scandal if you ask for a serving girl by name. Let it drop.”

  Lord St. Germains advanced down the room toward them. “Are you ready, Your Highness? It is eleven o’clock.”

  “Yes, yes.” The prince pulled in his lower lip and straightened his shoulders. “See to it, Newcastle.”

  Peter watched as Albert Edward began to greet the gentlemen of the island. Again he admired the prince’s ability to step into the role of public figure and benefactor. He presented a cheerful exterior and seemed to enjoy himself to the hilt as he was introduced to tradesmen, farmers, shipbuilders, and lawyers. One of the local journalists had described the heir apparent as having a strikingly handsome, intelligent countenance and a “large and beautiful eye.” He was not far off. The young man did carry himself as the son of Queen Victoria ought—as the heir apparent to the throne of the British Empire. If his mother were present, she could be proud of him. Even his father would be pleased if he could view his eldest son’s behavior today.

  And yet it had not always been that way. Peter had heard rumors that the prince consort—Bertie’s father, Prince Albert—had spoken sharply to the young man about his performance at school last term. Already, it seemed, the heir apparent was showing a bit of a wild streak. Indeed, General Bruce and the Earl of Washburn were included in this tour largely to advise and keep an eye on the prince—and make sure he behaved in a suitable manner.

  The overheard snatch of conversation niggled at Peter. That maid. I want her at the ball tonight.

  In his four days at Government House, Peter had seen diligent servants everywhere attending to their duties. The maids were, for the most part, plain and sturdy young women. He hadn’t seen one beautiful enough to catch the prince’s eye—other than Molly. No doubt Mrs. Dundas and her housekeeper had put the girl in the dining room for that very reason. Besides being quick to learn and steady of hand, Molly had a pretty face, which would please the guests more than if a homely woman served their dinner.

  He shoved the troubling thought aside as men began filing past the visiting dignitaries toward the exit. Of all people, he knew the havoc that could result when an aristocrat decided to pursue a pretty girl of the working class. Peter bowed and smiled, bowed and smiled, helped an elderly man retrieve the gloves he dropped, and bowed and smiled.

  Captain Lea and Lord St. Germains held up admirably with the presentations. St. Germains’s loud, clear voice carried each name down the long room. Peter kept an ear open and an eye cocked for his sociable hat.

  As the guests passed on down the room beyond the prince, they were greeted by the other members of the royal suite. The Earl of Washburn was especially good at this. He spoke a few words to each man, easing them down from the nervous moment of coming face-to-face with the Prince of Wales and perhaps making them feel, just for a few seconds, a part of the great British Empire—a part that mattered.

  By halfway into the hour, Peter had stopped hearing the names as the steward called them out. His mind was numb from the swirl of men, scrubbed and brushed, wearing their best. Only the pronouncement of a familiar name in St. Germains’s stentorian voice jerked him back to attention.

  “Mr. Anson Orland.”

  Orland.

  Peter leaned forward to see the man advancing toward the prince. A white-haired gentleman with a jovial face and magnificent beard stood upright, tall and distinguished-looking, wearing a rather fine tailcoat and carrying a top hat perhaps not quite as elegant as his coat. Peter swallowed hard. This had to be Molly’s grandfather. He hoped Washburn wouldn’t recognize the man’s wardrobe.

  Anson Orland murmured something and bowed to Prince Albert Edward. The prince nodded a proper, regal response.

  However, from the moment Orland was announced, Washburn stood stiff as a poker. As the elderly man stepped over to bow to the Duke of Newcastle, Washburn strode to Peter and gripped his shoulder.

  “Did you hear that gentleman’s name?”

  Peter glanced toward the old man speaking to the duke. “Yes, my lord.”

  “His name is Orland.” The earl’s facial muscles tensed. He reached into his pocket then tucked something into Peter’s hand—a coin, by the feel of it. The earl’s teeth clenched, his amiable manner gone. “Get rid of him.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Peter stared after Washburn as he strode through the folding doors. He looked down at the gold piece the earl had passed him. His mind swirled with suppositions. The man carrying his hat had to be Molly’s grandfather. But the man carrying his hat was named Orland. Therefore, Molly’s grandfather was named Orland, and Molly must be a member of the Orland family. The earl had blanched and fled the room when he heard the name.

  Peter drew a steadying breath and turned toward a tradesman who had just come through the line.

  “How do you do, sir? You may exit right through here.” Even as he spoke, Peter watched the next visitor, Anson Orland, who had been presented to the governor and the prince and now greeted the duke.

  The old man turned away from Newcastle smiling but then looked about, seemingly confused. Slowly he approached Peter.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Peter said. “You may exit through these doors.”

  Mr. Orland stopped and surveyed him. With a start, Peter realized that Orland’s vivid blue eyes—very like Molly’s—were on a level with his own. The old man must have been a giant in his youth.

  “Young man, is the Earl of Washburn present? I understood he was to be here today.”

  Peter strove to keep his features calm and betray nothing. “He was, sir, but he had to leave suddenly.”

  “Ah. Too bad.” The white-haired man frowned and shook his head.

  Peter’s mind raced as he tried to recall every word Molly had spoken about her grandfather. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”

  “No. No, I just wished to meet the earl. I met his father once, back in England. Before I emigrated.” His face had gone a dull red, and he looked about once more as though hoping to spy the earl behind one of the vases of cut flowers.

  “Ah, I see. A pity that you missed him. I apologize on behalf of His Lordship.” Peter began to walk slowly, and the old man accompanied him to the exit. That made the job the earl had given him easier. Molly had mentioned her grandfather’s hopes to see the earl, but given the elderly farmer’s agitation and the earl’s reaction to hearing his name, perhaps it was best that the two did not meet.

  Orland paused by the door and turned Peter’s hat round and round by its brim. At last he nodded. “Thank you, young man.”

  As the old gentlemen left, Peter let out a sigh. Several others had been presented and were hanging back, waiting for Orland to clear the doorway. Peter stepped back.

  “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. You may exit here.”

  Not five minutes later Washburn returned and resumed his place beside the duke, a few yards from where Peter stood. He seemed to have collected himself—and perhaps a glass of sherry. He greeted the next guest with warmth, and Peter began to relax. His pulse slowly returned to normal…until another thought struck him.

  I’ve met Molly’s grandfather.


  He smiled to himself. It wasn’t the way he’d have preferred to meet a member of her family. But with the earl so on edge when he learned a man named Orland was present, it was probably best that Molly’s grandpa Anson didn’t know his identity. If he’d realized that Peter worked directly for Washburn, he might have asked for a favor, especially if he knew that his granddaughter had stolen Peter’s heart.

  There, he admitted it, if only to himself. Molly’s shy, modest manner, her diligence and ingenuity, along with her wholesome beauty, had smitten him. If only he lived another life, held a different station…but that was a silly wish. If his life were different, he’d never have met her.

  Another more disturbing thought wrestled for his attention. The name Orland had entered the conversation on that occasion, four years ago now, when the Earl of Washburn had called him into his study. Peter hadn’t untangled the threads yet, but he had begun to understand Molly’s words and Anson Orland’s desire to see the earl. There was a connection indeed, and Peter determined to sort it out. He wouldn’t bring up the topic, but if his master did, he would learn all he could. If Washburn didn’t broach the subject, perhaps a discreet inquiry to Dundas about the farming family could shed some light on the Orlands’ situation.

  “Mr. David Orland.”

  Peter’s heart kicked at the Lord High Steward’s words. He whirled to stare at the tall man hobbling toward the prince, using two canes to support himself. He was a younger version of Anson Orland, very tall but hunched over the canes, with the same shimmering golden hair that Molly had. Peter tensed. In addition to one of his canes, in his left hand the man held Peter’s hat by the edge of its brim. So they had both come, but separately. What did it mean?

  David Orland face’s was creased in lines of pain as he shuffled forward. Molly had said her father was recovering from an accident—a broken leg. Yet he’d gone to great effort to come and meet the prince. Or was it Washburn he’d come to see as well? Peter held his breath. That was likely it. The earl was turned to one side, speaking to General Bruce and smiling. Had he not heard the name St. Germains had just given?