Page 144 of The Boxing Baroness

Instead, she hopped out and stepped around Jo.

The blond woman had crossed her arms and was leaning against the back of the caravan, smirking at the screaming carter, who was arguing with Angus.

The bird was excitedly bobbing up and down on Jo’s shoulder and hurling insults—in French—its voice eerily like Jo’s. As Marianne waited for a gap in the steady stream of oncoming traffic, she couldn’t help laughing at one particularly crude and anatomically impossible instruction the bird tossed at the now raging Frenchman.

She left the argument behind and hurried toward the cathedral, pausing as she approached to admire the ancient church.

After five or six minutes of gawking, she tore her gaze from the magnificent rose window, myriad carvings, friezes, and gargoyles and forced her feet to resume their journey.

The sense of entering God’s house was almost overpowering as she passed through the narthex and into the nave, where she again paused to stare in awe at a vaulted ceiling that soared impossibly high overhead.

She had never been in a Catholic church before. Although there was no mass in progress—indeed, there were only a scattering of people in the massive nave—there were subtle differences in the structure itself.

“Excusez-moi,” a woman murmured behind her, making Marianne realize that she’d stopped right in the middle of the aisle. She glanced over at the right rear pew: It was empty.

She could gawk just as well sitting down.

Marianne was admiring the breathtaking stained-glass windows, crowded with crowned men and winged angels, when she felt movement beside her.

The woman who’d sat next to her was so heavily veiled that Marianne could see nothing of her face. She was garbed in the manner of a housekeeper or upper servant.

“You will please to accompany me, mademoiselle?” she said in heavily accented English.

Marianne nodded and stood, her heart pounding in her ears.

The woman proceeded to lead her on a Byzantine journey into the bowels of the massive building.

Marianne quickly lost track of the number of turns and doors and corridors. Finally, after what felt like years, her guide stopped in front of an elaborately carved door and knocked softly.

A voice inside called out, “Entrez! ”

The servant, if that’s what she was, opened the door and gestured Marianne into a lavishly appointed, book-filled room that was obviously some important person’s study.

A slender dark-haired woman of middling years came toward Marianne, her hands outstretched, her brown eyes wide with wonder.

Marianne hesitantly held out her hands and her mother clenched them hard enough to hurt. “Mon Dieu,” she said, tears glazing her eyes. “But you are so like him.”

She gazed into Marianne’s eyes for so long that she began to squirm.

“Oh!” the Crown Princess of Sweden said, a flush darkening her cheeks. “But what am I doing making you stand here? Come—” She gestured to the chair she’d just vacated. “Sit with me. Lavigne has gone to fetch tea for us. Please, sit.”

Marianne was grateful to sit; her knees felt as if they were made of water.

They stared at each other.

Désirée spoke first. “I’m sorry—I know I must be making you uncomfortable. Mademoiselle Brown told me you did not know of me until just recently.”

“Yes, just a few weeks ago. Although I didn’t learn of my f-father until less than a week ago.”

“I’m afraid those were my instructions to Sandrine. I wanted to wait to tell you the truth until you were of age.” Her lips pulled down at the corners and her chin wobbled slightly. And then she leaned forward and clutched Marianne’s hands, her own as slender and fine-boned as Angus’s claws. “Did you suffer? Please tell me I did not make a mistake sending you with Sandrine? She was so happy to have you—she could not have children herself.” She swallowed noisily. “She sent me letters four times a year. Even right before she died she sent one last message suggesting a cousin of hers, Sonia, and her husband Barnabas.”

Marianne’s head was pounding, and it was difficult to gather her wits.

“I’m sorry, I’m babbling—asking too many—”

Marianne squeezed the hand that was still entangled with hers. “Please, er, Your Royal Highness, you are—”

The queen shook her head vigorously. “No, no, no! Don’t call me that. If you cannot call me maman—” She hesitated, no doubt seeing Marianne’s reluctance on her face. “You must call me Désirée.”