Chapter 10 - THE MAN WHO LOVED CLAIRE WHITMAN MET PRINCESS CAROLINE VALE
Grandfather recovered enough to resume some duties after nine months.
I remained regent formally until parliament ended temporary arrangement.
When he returned to council chamber, everyone applauded.
I did too.
Then he whispered:
“Your wheat speech is still more popular than mine.”
“Good.”
He glared.
I smiled.
Samuel lived in Florence.
We saw each other every six weeks.
Sometimes Valeria.
Sometimes Italy.
Once Boston.
That trip mattered.
I had not returned since leaving after wedding.
The Hawthorne Museum invited me for exhibition on restored diplomatic correspondence.
I agreed only if event was about manuscripts, not princess.
They lied.
There were cameras.
Still, I returned.
My brownstone had new tenants.
My old grocery store clerk recognized me and said:
“You’re that princess.”
I said:
“You’re still overcharging for blueberries.”
He laughed.
That felt like home.
The museum smelled the same.
Paper.
Dust.
Climate control.
Margaret hugged me.
No curtsy.
Perfect.
Samuel met us there.
He had never seen Claire’s life.
My workbench.
Tiny staff room.
Coffee machine that should have been condemned.
I showed him.
“This is where you hid?”
“I lived.”
He looked around.
“I understand.”
That mattered.
Then Ethan appeared.
Of course.
Not planned.
He had been invited as part of architecture firm? He no longer at firm. Maybe exhibition restoration included community attendees. He bought public ticket.
He stood across gallery.
Older.
Thinner.
No camera.
No journalist.
He saw me.
Then Samuel.
Understanding crossed.
I could have avoided.
Instead, I walked over.
“Ethan.”
“Caroline.”
Not Claire.
Progress.
“Samuel Rowan.”
They shook hands.
No masculine nonsense.
Ethan said:
“I’ve read your restoration paper.”
Samuel blinked.
“Which?”
“The flood-damaged monastic archive.”
“Apparently someone reads those.”
“I’m architect.”
“I like old buildings.”
For ten surreal minutes, the man who once promised me ordinary life and the man I loved now discussed limestone humidity.
I nearly laughed.
Then Samuel excused to meet Margaret.
Ethan and I stood alone.
“You look happy.”
he said.
“I am.”
He nodded.
“I’m glad.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
I believed.
“What are you doing?”
“Smaller firm.”
“Residential.”
“Teaching one studio.”
“Good.”
Damn word.
He smiled.
“I heard your interview about public archives.”
“You watch?”
“Sometimes.”
“That seems unhealthy.”
“Less now.”
Fair.
Then:
“I’m sorry about messages.”
“I know.”
“I told myself if everyone knew you lied too, I wouldn’t be only villain.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
He laughed sadly.
“It made me worse.”
“Yes.”
“I learned.”
Stop.
He smiled.
Then:
“Was anything real?”
I knew what he meant.
Us.
Claire.
His proposal.
“Most of it.”
His eyes filled.
“Even though you weren’t Claire?”
“I was Claire.”
“That’s what took me longest.”
He nodded.
“You were not fake.”
“No.”
“You were private.”
“Yes.”
“And I made privacy into excuse for betrayal.”
“Yes.”
He breathed.
“Samuel knows everything?”
“Enough to choose.”
That hurt him.
I saw.
But it was not punishment.
Just truth.
He looked toward Samuel.
“He seems good.”
“He’s annoying.”
“Your type.”
I laughed.
Maybe.
Then Ethan held out hand.
Not hug.
I took.
“Goodbye, Caroline.”
“Goodbye, Ethan.”
This time it felt final.
Later, Samuel and I walked along Charles River.
The same place Ethan proposed years before.
I had not planned route.
Boston is cruelly circular.
Samuel noticed me slowing.
“What?”
“This is where Ethan proposed.”
“Do you want leave?”
I looked at river.
“No.”
We stood.
“He promised me a real life.”
Samuel was quiet.
“That was what I wanted.”
“Do you still?”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean now?”
I thought.
“Not small.”
“Not anonymous.”
“Real means nobody has to pretend.”
Samuel nodded.
Then:
“I need to tell you something.”
I groaned.
“Those words.”
“I declined extension in Florence.”
My heart jumped.
“Because of me?”
“Partly.”
I stiffened.
He smiled.
“Do not panic.”
“What else?”
“Valerian Manuscript Institute offered director-general position.”
I stared.
“You applied?”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me?”
“It was confidential recruitment.”
“I am Regent.”
“Former Regent.”
“Princess.”
“Still not hiring committee.”
He smiled.
“I wanted job on merits.”
“And?”
“I got it.”
Pride filled.
Then suspicion.
“Did palace influence?”
“I had external panel, anonymized publication review, and I made Helena sign conflict statement.”
I laughed.
“You planned for me.”
“I know you.”
He took my hand.
“I want to come back to Valeria.”
My chest tightened.
“For job.”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“Both.”
“Yes.”
Honest.
Then:
“What happens if we break up?”
“I still run manuscripts.”
“What happens if I renounce?”
“I still run manuscripts.”
“If I become emperor?”
“You’ll still ruin archive humidity.”
I laughed.
Then he pulled small box from coat.
I froze.
“No.”
He laughed.
“It’s not ring.”
Inside was brass key.
Old.
“To what?”
“A townhouse in Port Aurelia.”
I stared.
“You bought house?”
“I rented.”
“Good.”
“Stop.”
We laughed.
“One year lease.”
he said.
“My name.”
“My salary.”
“You may visit.”
“If invited.”
“Yes.”
No merging.
No palace suite.
No rescue.
Real.
I closed box.
“I would like to visit.”
“Good.”
Damn word.
Boston river moved beside us.
I realized I no longer needed to choose between Claire’s ordinary life and Caroline’s inherited one.
I needed people who understood both were mine.
Samuel did.
Not perfectly.
Nobody would.
May you like
But he asked.
That was enough to keep going.
