“Lanconia.”
“Yeah, right. How can a foreign lady have an Indian guardian?”
’Ring laughed and lay down on the blanket. “That’s the least of my questions about that little lady. Tomorrow I’m going to start finding out some answers. Good night,” he said, and closed his eyes.
Maddie sat on the hard horsehide seat inside the coach and glared out the window. She utterly refused to look at the man sitting across from her. This morning Captain Montgomery had told her he was going to ride in the coach with her. Not asked. Told. He said he’d like a break from horseback, but she knew he planned to try to get information out of her.
This morning, after she’d awakened from a restless night, her first thought had been that last night, when she’d been so tired and he’d used his hands to relax her, she’d almost told him something about Laurel.
What if she’d let something slip? She could just hear him saying “My orders, ma’am, are to take into custody any man, woman, child, or animal that is trying to interfere in the freedom of this country.” She imagined pleading with him for her sister’s life and hearing him say that duty and orders mean more than one insignificant little girl’s life.
“I beg your pardon,” she said as she became aware that Captain Montgomery was speaking.
“I asked if LaReina was all there is to your name.”
“Yes,” she said, looking into his eyes. She’d tried once to tell him that LaReina was a stage name and he wouldn’t listen then so she wasn’t going to make a second effort.
“That’s odd, then, that Miss Honey calls you Maddie and your trunks all have the initials MW on them.”
“If you must know, LaReina is my middle name.
It’s Madelyn LaReina…” She was trying to think of an appropriate Lanconian surname but couldn’t.
“No last name, as in all royalty, or, should I say, aristocracy?” he asked. “Is your family from royal dukes or just aristocratic dukes? Or do they distinguish them in Lanconia?”
She had no idea what he was talking about. Ask me the difference between a trill and a cadenza, she thought. Or the range of a mezzo compared to a soprano. Ask me the words, in Italian, French, German, or Spanish to most operas, but don’t ask me anything outside the world of music. “They don’t distinguish,” she said, giving him what she hoped was a confident smile. “A duke is a duke is a duke.”
“That makes sense, but then, I guess the king is a relative of yours.”
“Third cousin,” she said without blinking an eye. It was amazing that lying seemed to get easier with practice. Maybe it was like scales.
“On your mother’s side or your father’s?”
She opened her mouth to say mother’s, but he spoke before she could answer.
He stretched his long legs out when the coach gave a violent lurch. “That was a foolish question. It would have to be on your father’s side for the title to pass down.” His eyes sparkled. “This father of yours who can’t climb very well. Unless Lanconia has a matriarchal link or your mother has one of those rare titles that a woman can inherit, in which case your father probably couldn’t take her title.” He paused at another lurch. “But then, if you have inherited the title, then presumably your parents are dead and there is a matriarchal link.”
“Look,” Maddie said, “there’s an elk. Perhaps tomorrow, after my performance tonight, I can go see some of the countryside. It’s so different here from my home.”
“Which is it?”
“Which is what?” she asked, knowing exactly what he was asking.
“Is your title a matriarchal link?”
She gritted her teeth. If the man was nothing else, he was persistent. “Please, this is America. While I’m here I want to be as American as I can be. Being a duchess is so…so…”
“Fraught with duties?”
“Yes. Exactly. It was such a boring life in the palace. All I ever cared about was singing. I spent all my days with Madame Branchini. I cared for nothing but my lessons.” At last there was a bit of truth. She straightened her bonnet. Maybe if she told him a story he’d shut up. “Once, outside Paris, after I’d sung I Puritani three nights in a row, a Russian prince invited me to a dinner party at his house. There were about half a dozen women there that night, all great ladies: English, French, an Italian lady, and a beautiful, sad-looking Russian princess. The first course was a lovely, thick creamy soup with a bit of sherry in it and, as we reached the bottom of our bowls, each lady found a pearl in the bottom of the bowl. Quite a lovely pearl, rather large.”
He looked at her thoughtfully for a while. “After a childhood in a palace and dinners with pearls in the soup, you came to America. America must be a great letdown for you.”
“It’s not so bad. I mean, America and Americans have a lot to say for themselves.”
“You are very kind to say that, but a lady like you…you should have champagne and roses and gentlemen giving you diamonds.”
“No, really,” she said, leaning forward. “I’d just as soon not. I mean, I’ve had that all my life. Even as a child I had to wear a little crown when I went out among my people.” It’s a wonder God doesn’t strike me dead, she thought.