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Ben returns then with two fresh glasses of champagne. “If I could interrupt for a moment, Abbey, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Come along too, Lee, if you’d like.”
As I accept the champagne he hands me, Ben sniffs, rubbing at his nose. Man, autumn allergies in England are no joke. Jamie’s been snotting all over the house for the last week. I guess he’s not the only one.
“Up for a little mingling?” I ask Lee, offering him my arm.
“Always.”
Well into an endless spring of champagne, I’ve loosened up enough to start enjoying myself. Ben introduces us to some friends of his, nobility and a couple of British television presenters I pretend to recognize, because there’s nothing more awkward than telling a celebrity you’ve never heard of them. Lee charms them all. He’s entirely in his element, telling jokes and flirting his ass off. Still, his gaze drifts back to Eric, whom he leaves us to find when Ben invites me to dance again after dinner.
“Was it worth it?” Ben asks. He leads me around the dance floor as the orchestra plays a ballad.
“Tonight? Absolutely. I’ll never forget it.”
“These things become tedious after a while. More an obligation than an occasion.” He gazes down at me. “I think you’ve salvaged the evening for me.”
“Glad I could help.”
The first strains of the violins hit my ears as they start up the next song. I recognize it in three notes and stifle a groan. Ben smiles at the embarrassment blooming red on my face.
“I know this one. What’s the line?” He narrows his eyes, recalling, while at the same time searching my face for the answer. “Something about windmills.”
I decide to play coy. “Never heard of it.”
“I’m quite sure the room would entertain a serenade if you’d fancy stepping up to the mic,” he says, having fun at my expense.
“My singing is actually banned by the Geneva Conventions.” I break away to escape the dance floor, but Ben is too quick, catching me.
“Don’t go. The chorus is the best part.”
I hold up my empty champagne glass. “I need a refill.”
He relents, following me as I attempt to place myself in the path of a roving champagne tray. Ben has more success, easily snagging glasses for both of us.
“As it happens,” he says, “I do have news for you.”
“You’ve been holding out on me,” I accuse. “What’d you find?”
“Why don’t we find somewhere a little more private to chat about it?” Ben offers me his arm. “Let’s get some air, shall we?”
We weave our way through the perilous ballroom full of dress trains and protruding ceremonial swords hanging off the hips of men in military uniform. Ben brings us to a secluded alcove just outside the ballroom. The halls here are quiet and otherwise empty.
“I found letters sent from a private investigator Lawrence hired to find Robert a few years after his disappearance,” Ben reveals, looking quite pleased with himself. “Though he couldn’t say for certain, there was some suspicion Robert might have fled to Ireland to live under an assumed name.”
I gasp. “He didn’t die. I knew it.”
“After interviewing people close to Robert, the investigator believed he left to avoid an arranged marriage with one of the royal princesses. Allegedly, he was in love with someone else.”
“It’s Josephine. Has to be.” My mind races with possibilities. This is fantastic news. “But that still doesn’t tell us if she went to Ireland with Robert or with William on theVictoria.”
“Rather romantic either way, no?”
“I think it’s tragic. In one scenario, she might have boarded that ship imagining a new life in America with the man she loved, who was giving up everything to be with her, only to perish in a horrible disaster. In the best case, she escaped with Robert, but forever exiled. Not an easy way to live.”
“There’s romance in tragedy, don’t you think? The two are inextricably entwined. What is romance, love, without the threat of imminent ruin? We give our souls to another person when surely the only possible end is sorrow. For one of us at least.”
“Sure, I guess. The inevitable end of life is death. But saying this fact makes all of existence inherently tragic is a gloomy way to look at it,” I point out. “Does an ounce of salt in a pound of sugar spoil the whole cake? I don’t think that’s true.”
Ben watches me with an odd sort of expression, closing the gap between us by a few inches.
