The Royal Nanny by Karen Harper Page A

she was away. I even jotted things down for her, so wait until she heard this regal, elegant woman looked absolutely bedraggled after her water skirmish with Harry.
    I noted too that she and Lady Knollys had left wet footprints behind them. I shuddered to think what I was going to find in the nursery.
    I went in to see Mary had already put a fashionable, bisque-headed doll with her collection of them and had her nose in a book on horses, for she had taken to reading earlier than the boys. Water blotched the wall and the floor. Harry was indeed tucked into his crib, looking exhausted, no doubt from what must be equal to a swim across the channel.
    Queen for a day, indeed. M e? Even as a joke? M e?
    How Chad would have laughed at that.
    S TILL IN A tizzy over the king and queen’s whirlwind visit, once Mary was down for a nap too, I left Martha mending the children’s clothes in my chair in the nursery and went outside to calm myself. It was a lovely day, and I strolled to the botanical glasshouse with its riot of colors and smells. Although flowers were blooming on the grounds already, and I’d heard the ruffled grouse drumming away with their mating calls, I still needed to heal my loss of Chad. This seemed to be the nearest—and most challenging—place to do it.
    I didn’t fear I’d run into him here, for it was one of his busiest seasons stocking the coverts and fields with pheasant, grouse, and woodcocks. Too soon, no doubt even this Saturday, the air would be rent with the bangs of guns bringing down the birds Chad and his father raised. Massive numbers of them were killed at one of the king’s or duke’s hunting parties on the grounds by the male guests, while, during their midday break, the ladies, dressed to the nines, met them in the field for luncheon under a tent before more shooting.
    Once I was in the door, I breathed in the moist, sweet air. A young, brown-haired woman with a cart that just fit between the aisles of plants was loading orchids and clove-scented malmaisons into it, no doubt decorations for the Big House. I’d seen that Queen Victoria’s favorite begonias and petunias had been quickly replaced by more exotic, imported blooms. I’d heard that Queen Alexandra’s favorite color mauve was taking over the old queen’s favorite dark colors in drawing rooms and salons. French instead of German styles, they said, were all the rage. As for this woman, I didn’t want to bother her or speak to anyone, but she turned as if she had sensed my presence.
    â€œOh,” she said, with a little gasp. “It’s you. I know who you are.”
    I did not know who she was, but I sensed it. Chad, Mrs. Wentworth had told me, had married the daughter of the man who kept the Big House in flowers, but I’d encountered no one here this late in the day.
    I said nothing for a moment as we studied each other. I know who you are, echoed in my head. But sometimes, I didn’t know who I was. Oh, yes, Mrs. Lala, head nursemaid to the royal children, and blessed to be so. But was I missing something, living here like a nun at Sandringham? Was it enough? Would I look back withregrets? I did now, so terribly torn between who I was and who I could have been.
    â€œThen you have me at a disadvantage,” I said, though it was partly a lie.
    â€œI warrant I do now,” she said cheekily and banged an orchid so hard on her cart, the flowers nodded hard in agreement. “My Chad wasted years on you, taking you all about the estate, but I’ll make up for it now.”
    I wanted to say something pert, even hurtful back to her, but I held my tongue. For Chad. For propriety. For my own terror that perhaps I had done a stupid thing not to run after him in this very place and beg him to give me more time, to wait for me.
    Instead, I said to her, “I believe you have a job here on the estate that you must love, just as I do. I wish you well, Millie