Fic: To Take is Not to Give (2/?)
Title: To Take is Not to Give (Part II of ?)
Author: lareinenoire
Play: 3 Henry VI / Richard III
Characters / Pairings: The York family, the Neville family, eventual Richard/Anne, Edward/Elizabeth
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 3040 (Part II only)
Warnings: Violence (mostly offstage), character deaths, profanity.
Summary: Richard York and Anne Warwick are far more alike than either wishes to admit.
NB: Dedicated to rosamund and angevin2, who are the reason it exists. Part of the 'Sweet Fortune's Minions' AU, set directly after An Exchange of Favours.
i. Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his son
ii. No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity
Elizabeth Woodville-Grey should have been in pictures. If the rumours were true, she nearly had been, only to turn round at the last minute and get married instead. For that alone, Anne disliked her. Who in their right mind would choose marriage--which anyone could do, given sufficient time and effort--over being a film star?
Only bird-brained girls like Bel and, evidently, Elizabeth Woodville-Grey. Although the more Anne pondered the latter, the more she grudgingly conceded that Edward York's new wife might be rather less empty-headed than she gave herself out to be. After all, a bare six months before, she'd been a widow with barely enough in her pockets to feed her children. To jump from that to Chanel and caviar must have been well nigh dizzying.
Of course, she'd never have done it if she weren't beautiful. Bel hated her for that. She'd got over her ill-fated fancy for Edward some time before, thank goodness, but that hardly meant she wouldn't begrudge whoever did marry him. Especially if she were a golden-haired goddess who could bring entire rooms to a standstill by simply walking in.
Anne wanted to point out that, knowing Edward's history, nobody could have predicted otherwise, but Bel was far too interested in turning the full force of her charm upon poor, hapless George and sharpening her claws on whatever rumours she could pick up about the erstwhile Mrs Woodville-Grey. Electing to preserve the no doubt decimated remains of her wits, Anne let the majority of anything her sister said drift in one ear and out the other and concentrated her attentions on the object of Bel's scorn.
"Do you see anything interesting?" The voice at her ear made her start, and she whirled to face Edward's youngest brother, the wreck of his back almost hidden by an ingeniously cut suit. That was unexpected; she hadn't pegged him as vain.
Anne shrugged, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder. "It's always interesting to watch people when they don't notice you're there." She would have done the same to him, except for the rather unsettling fact that he always seemed to notice somehow. But she supposed the strange, quiet young man who was rumoured to have been the guiding genius behind the so-called Palm Sunday Massacre of '33 was the sort of person who had eyes in the back of his head.
"You're wrong, you know," he was saying, his gaze focused on his brother and Elizabeth. "They only ever let you see what they want you to see. It's the key to Ned's success. The image of perfection, with no hint of what's behind."
"You?"
He cracked a smile, an odd, crooked thing. "How flattering. But you overestimate me. I'm just his younger brother."
She wanted to ask him about trip wires across a dozen doorways and guns hidden in flower boxes, how forty men were somehow systematically slaughtered as they tried to escape the inferno that had once been the Lancaster estate in Essex, still a mouldering ruin two years later. The words danced on the tip of her tongue, but something in his face forestalled her, as if he knew how much she longed to know if it was his idea. Richard York, his father's namesake. If the rumours were true, forty men had died at his instigation a bare few months before his sixteenth birthday. Although Henry and his wife had managed to escape all the same, buying passage on a fishing boat across the Channel. There was that flaw in his grand plan.
As if reading her mind, he shrugged. "We'll find her sooner or later. Paris isn't that large."
"And what, pray, do you plan to do with her when you do find her?" Anne turned away from him, taking a drag on her cigarette. "I doubt she'll be amenable to any suggestion of yours."
"I don't think being amenable has anything to do with it." There was something chilling in his voice, something that made Anne shift uncomfortably. "You disapprove."
"I don't think anything," she replied, tossing away the words as lightly as she could before turning back to offer him a cloyingly sweet smile. "I'm just Bel's younger sister."
"Touché." His laughter caught her by surprise, all the more because it seemed genuine. "You do know your father had meant for Ned to marry an heiress. A particular one, I seem to remember."
Anne fiddled with the cigarette, recalling her father's many words on the subject. They could be heard throughout the house, despite her mother's desperate attempts to calm him. "You remember correctly. She had a very silly name, but the match would have given Father a share in the Union des Banques Suisses. Naturally, he was terribly upset."
"Not too upset to appear tonight," he said.
"Oh, he couldn't possibly have missed the grand début of your sister-in-law," Anne replied with her most innocent smile. "I'm told it's the event of the social season, although you mustn't tell Bel that."
He snorted. "Your sister and I avoid one another on principle. I think we're perfectly content to pretend the other doesn't exist."
"A feat which will be made considerably easier should she become your other sister-in-law."
"I see your father's plans continue apace." They were both watching Bel and George now, catching the poisonous looks cast at the newlyweds. "He does know that George is a prize idiot."
"Well, at least he'll be his prize idiot, rather than Elizabeth Woodville-Grey's. Not that it especially matters." She glanced at him through lowered lashes. "Now that you know, I don't doubt that Ned will nip any such ideas in the bud."
He studied her for a moment, head tilted in a manner eerily reminiscent of his mother. "I can only imagine you want something in return."
Anne smiled. "I need your mother's help. And since Father isn't speaking to Ned, and George is worse than useless, I see no other way."
"You see a great deal, Miss Warwick. My mother should call on you in a few days." And, with that, he limped toward Edward, the mahogany cane tapping in time to the music.
As promised, Cecily York arrived just in time for tea the next day, much to Anne's mother's consternation. Anne watched with well-concealed admiration as that lady deflected Isabel's heated questions about her new daughter-in-law while encouraging her mother's confidences on the subject of her father's moods. It was only when Anne herself suggested a stroll in Hyde Park that she managed to catch Mrs York alone.
"I was told," Mrs York said, deliberately slowing her steps such that Anne's mother and Isabel moved further away, "that you wished to speak to me."
"I do, Mrs York," replied Anne. "My father has never approved of the higher education of women, and Mother will not gainsay him. I was told that you studied at Newnham College, and had hoped you might put in a good word for me."
She had the same direct stare as her youngest son, though her eyes were blue like Edward's. "You wish to countermand your father?"
"I wish to be educated, ma'am. I don't see it as such a sin." She considered briefly before continuing. "I am no beauty, Mrs York, not like my sister." Or Elizabeth Woodville-Grey. "And I have no desire to be sold to the highest bidder who will take me for my money and spend it all on his mistresses."
That prompted a smile, albeit a fleeting one. "You have a cynical view of marriage."
"How can I not, with my parents?" Anne stopped, taking both of her hands. "Please. I can't bear it here."
There was an odd light of sympathy in the older woman's eyes. "Leave it to me, my dear. I will do what I can."
***
Cecily York was as good as her word. Some ten months later, Anne received a letter from Newnham College, Cambridge, offering her a place for the upcoming academic year. A letter now pinched between her father's fingers, tapping on the burnished wood surface of his desk.
"And what, exactly, do you propose to gain by this?" He settled back in his chair, leather squeaking beneath his weight. It was rare enough that he was in London these days, and she had managed to catch him several hours before he was due to depart for Paris for what seemed like the hundredth time. Of course, it was a mistake to assume that just because he was on the verge of leaving, he could be caught off guard. "They don't confer degrees on women, you know."
"I'm aware of it, Father. I merely wish to enrich my mind. Is that a problem?"
Her father's nose wrinkled. "You are a young lady with a great fortune, Annie. This college business is little more than a waste of time and funds."
"But it will make me happy." Anne leant forward so she was looking at him through her lashes as Bel did. "Daddy, please?"
"Oh, Annie," he chuckled, "a valiant effort, but you'll need a great deal more practice. And it's not the sort of thing one learns at a women's college."
"How do you know that?" she demanded, cheeks flushing. "I want to go. And you shan't stop me." Snatching the letter from him, she stormed out of the room, his laughter echoing in her wake.
It was Bel who found her later, head buried beneath her pillow. In a whiff of expensive silk and flowery scent, she settled on the bed. "I just can't see why you want to go to some stuffy college. Don't you want a Season?"
Anne refused to dignify that with anything more than a groan.
"Well," Bel mused, "I suppose there will be a lot of men about, it being Cambridge. No doubt you'll find someone suitable there. Although..." Anne could all but hear the smile in her voice, and withdrew her head to glare at her sister, "there is always George's younger brother."
"Bel, don't you think of anything else?"
"I'm only looking out for you, Annie," her sister protested. "You need to think about your future."
"Which is why I'm going to Cambridge, Bel. No matter what Father says." Anne pulled herself upright, hugging the pillow tightly. "And don't look at me that way. I'm not you, Bel. I don't want a Season and a closetful of gowns I'm never going to wear. And just because I spoke to George's brother doesn't mean I'm at all interested."
Bel's shoulders relaxed. "Thank goodness, Annie. He gives me the shivers."
Anne opened her mouth to agree but closed it again, suddenly unsure. "He's a bit odd, yes."
"I suppose it makes sense, though. When you think of his poor mother, and what happened to his father..." Bel shook her head. "It's a miracle, really, that Ned and George turned out as well as they did."
"Bel," Anne took her sister's hand, "will you help me convince Father? He'll listen to you."
"But is it truly what you want, Annie?" Bel's eyes were the limpid blue of the summer sky, all sweetness. "If it is, of course, I'll help you. But..."
"It is. I know you don't understand, but I promise you it's what I want."
Isabel had no talent for manipulation, and, indeed, was possibly the worst liar Anne had ever met. But what she lacked in talent, she made up for with an air of angelic innocence and the enviable ability to burst into tears on the spot. The next time their father was in London, some few weeks later, Bel went to work while Anne prowled about the library, trying to distract herself.
It was her father who entered, a wry smile on his face. "My congratulations. She cried very prettily and would not leave me be until I promised to let you go to Cambridge."
"I play to my strengths, Father. One of them simply happens to be Bel. Although," she added, "I did have a contingency plan."
He raised his eyebrows. "Did you, now?"
"Either you let me go to Cambridge," Anne paused for effect, "or I tell Cecily York about how much time you've been spending in Paris recently."
"Oh, Annie." Her father laughed. "I have no doubt that Cecily York knows all she might wish to know about my activities. But I appreciate your efforts, and I suppose you might go to Cambridge, at least until it bores you."
Despite the sting of embarrassment, Anne accepted her victory as gracefully as she could, and consoled herself with the fact that she would be going to Cambridge after all.
It was everything she could have hoped for. London and her parents seemed a thousand miles away from the tranquil Cam and perfectly manicured quads, and even Bel's letters extolling the virtues of Paris fashion and George York could not mar Anne's spirits.
Even so, the rest of the world seemed determined to creep into Cambridge. She sat with a group of girls in the common room at Girton, listening to the wireless as King Edward gave up the throne for Wallis Simpson, and Anne could not help but remember the looks passed between Edward York and Elizabeth Woodville-Grey and wonder how they were faring. Her friends who had gone on holiday during Christmas returned with confusing stories about Paris and Berlin and red flags with bizarre symbols that seemed to be popping up everywhere.
Bel, of course, made no mention of these things and ignored them when Anne brought them up. At least that was the case until Bel appeared in her doorway one stormy evening in March, her face alight with excitement and a diamond sparkling on her wedding finger.
"We're married, Annie!"
Anne could only stare at her for several seconds before finally saying, "I still can't believe you've chosen to spend the rest of your life with George."
"He's such a dear, Annie, really. If you'd only get to know him, and you will now that he's your brother..."
"But what about Ned?" Anne stood, noting the uncertainty on her sister's face at the mention of her newly acquired brother-in-law. "He knows, doesn't he, Bel? Tell me Father told him."
Bel shrugged. "Of course he must have done. Although, I don't see why it matters. George isn't a child. He doesn't need Ned's permission for anything anymore."
Anne felt a cold stab of unease. "Ned's not an idiot, Bel, no matter what Father thinks. And don't start me on..."
"It doesn't matter, Annie. We're married now, in the eyes of God and man." She straightened, but her lips still formed a childish pout. "And nothing Ned or that jumped-up wife of his can do will change that." Bel held out her hands, falling to her knees in front of Anne's chair. "Be happy for me, Annie, please. It's what I wanted. And you're happy here, aren't you? With all your...books?"
Anne sighed. "Yes, I am happy here, Bel. And I wish you all the best with George, I do. But, Bel, this just doesn't seem right. Didn't you want a grand wedding? A white dress and," she grimaced, "me in pink or something dreadful like that? You've been threatening it for years."
"I did, yes, but this was the only way, Daddy said." There was a visible moue of disappointment. "I would have liked a proper wedding at St George's, but...what does it matter now, anyway? I'm married all the same. And Daddy has promised me a proper trousseau in Paris. Annie, please. Will you come with us?"
"If it's not during term-time," she found herself saying, "I suppose. I daresay someone must keep you from buying anything too horrid."
"Horrid!" Bel laughed. "You'd have me in nothing but black and pearls, which won't suit me in the least." She threw her arms around Anne. "I miss you, Annie."
Anne kept her misgivings to herself, even when she received a congratulatory letter from Cecily York. Though she sought to read between the lines to find some indication of what Ned--or anyone else--really thought of George's marriage, there was nothing. That was somehow far more troubling than any display of rage.
Easter Term came to an end in a haze of exams, punts, and Pimm's cocktails, and Anne prepared for the upcoming journey for Paris. Bel was in raptures at the gorgeous flat in the Marais, but Anne kept her attention on her father, who was smiling in a manner she could only find sinister.
He took her aside in the library some few weeks later. "Your sister seems very happy, does she not?" At Anne's noncommittal shrug, he settled himself into the chair opposite her. "Annie, I know you do not have a particularly good opinion of George."
"Does that matter?" Anne set her book aside. "Bel is already married to him, so it's quite clear how much my opinion is worth."
"Annie, don't be difficult. I too have come to find him...disappointing." The words were oddly expressionless, and Anne narrowed her eyes at him. "As a result, I have decided to take certain measures." Rising, he held out his hand to her. "There's someone I wish you to meet, Annie."
Despite her unease, Anne nodded, and followed him to the taxi waiting outside. It pulled to a stop in the Place Vendôme, just outside the Ritz. Her father walked straight to the lift, nodding in passing to the concierge, and Anne began to wonder how often he'd come here, how long this had all been happening. He claimed that Cecily York--and by extension Ned--knew already, but what did that even mean?
A maid in shabby but well-kept livery opened the door to one of the luxury appartements. She was saying something to Anne's father, but Anne could only stare at the woman standing by the window, clad in black from head to toe, red-painted lips clamped round the ivory handle of a cigarette holder. It was only when she smiled that Anne realised with a soft gasp where she had seen her before, in a grainy photograph, standing next to Edward York's father with just such a smile, perfect and cold.
Margaret Lancaster.
Part III
Author: lareinenoire
Play: 3 Henry VI / Richard III
Characters / Pairings: The York family, the Neville family, eventual Richard/Anne, Edward/Elizabeth
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 3040 (Part II only)
Warnings: Violence (mostly offstage), character deaths, profanity.
Summary: Richard York and Anne Warwick are far more alike than either wishes to admit.
NB: Dedicated to rosamund and angevin2, who are the reason it exists. Part of the 'Sweet Fortune's Minions' AU, set directly after An Exchange of Favours.
i. Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his son
ii. No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity
Elizabeth Woodville-Grey should have been in pictures. If the rumours were true, she nearly had been, only to turn round at the last minute and get married instead. For that alone, Anne disliked her. Who in their right mind would choose marriage--which anyone could do, given sufficient time and effort--over being a film star?
Only bird-brained girls like Bel and, evidently, Elizabeth Woodville-Grey. Although the more Anne pondered the latter, the more she grudgingly conceded that Edward York's new wife might be rather less empty-headed than she gave herself out to be. After all, a bare six months before, she'd been a widow with barely enough in her pockets to feed her children. To jump from that to Chanel and caviar must have been well nigh dizzying.
Of course, she'd never have done it if she weren't beautiful. Bel hated her for that. She'd got over her ill-fated fancy for Edward some time before, thank goodness, but that hardly meant she wouldn't begrudge whoever did marry him. Especially if she were a golden-haired goddess who could bring entire rooms to a standstill by simply walking in.
Anne wanted to point out that, knowing Edward's history, nobody could have predicted otherwise, but Bel was far too interested in turning the full force of her charm upon poor, hapless George and sharpening her claws on whatever rumours she could pick up about the erstwhile Mrs Woodville-Grey. Electing to preserve the no doubt decimated remains of her wits, Anne let the majority of anything her sister said drift in one ear and out the other and concentrated her attentions on the object of Bel's scorn.
"Do you see anything interesting?" The voice at her ear made her start, and she whirled to face Edward's youngest brother, the wreck of his back almost hidden by an ingeniously cut suit. That was unexpected; she hadn't pegged him as vain.
Anne shrugged, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder. "It's always interesting to watch people when they don't notice you're there." She would have done the same to him, except for the rather unsettling fact that he always seemed to notice somehow. But she supposed the strange, quiet young man who was rumoured to have been the guiding genius behind the so-called Palm Sunday Massacre of '33 was the sort of person who had eyes in the back of his head.
"You're wrong, you know," he was saying, his gaze focused on his brother and Elizabeth. "They only ever let you see what they want you to see. It's the key to Ned's success. The image of perfection, with no hint of what's behind."
"You?"
He cracked a smile, an odd, crooked thing. "How flattering. But you overestimate me. I'm just his younger brother."
She wanted to ask him about trip wires across a dozen doorways and guns hidden in flower boxes, how forty men were somehow systematically slaughtered as they tried to escape the inferno that had once been the Lancaster estate in Essex, still a mouldering ruin two years later. The words danced on the tip of her tongue, but something in his face forestalled her, as if he knew how much she longed to know if it was his idea. Richard York, his father's namesake. If the rumours were true, forty men had died at his instigation a bare few months before his sixteenth birthday. Although Henry and his wife had managed to escape all the same, buying passage on a fishing boat across the Channel. There was that flaw in his grand plan.
As if reading her mind, he shrugged. "We'll find her sooner or later. Paris isn't that large."
"And what, pray, do you plan to do with her when you do find her?" Anne turned away from him, taking a drag on her cigarette. "I doubt she'll be amenable to any suggestion of yours."
"I don't think being amenable has anything to do with it." There was something chilling in his voice, something that made Anne shift uncomfortably. "You disapprove."
"I don't think anything," she replied, tossing away the words as lightly as she could before turning back to offer him a cloyingly sweet smile. "I'm just Bel's younger sister."
"Touché." His laughter caught her by surprise, all the more because it seemed genuine. "You do know your father had meant for Ned to marry an heiress. A particular one, I seem to remember."
Anne fiddled with the cigarette, recalling her father's many words on the subject. They could be heard throughout the house, despite her mother's desperate attempts to calm him. "You remember correctly. She had a very silly name, but the match would have given Father a share in the Union des Banques Suisses. Naturally, he was terribly upset."
"Not too upset to appear tonight," he said.
"Oh, he couldn't possibly have missed the grand début of your sister-in-law," Anne replied with her most innocent smile. "I'm told it's the event of the social season, although you mustn't tell Bel that."
He snorted. "Your sister and I avoid one another on principle. I think we're perfectly content to pretend the other doesn't exist."
"A feat which will be made considerably easier should she become your other sister-in-law."
"I see your father's plans continue apace." They were both watching Bel and George now, catching the poisonous looks cast at the newlyweds. "He does know that George is a prize idiot."
"Well, at least he'll be his prize idiot, rather than Elizabeth Woodville-Grey's. Not that it especially matters." She glanced at him through lowered lashes. "Now that you know, I don't doubt that Ned will nip any such ideas in the bud."
He studied her for a moment, head tilted in a manner eerily reminiscent of his mother. "I can only imagine you want something in return."
Anne smiled. "I need your mother's help. And since Father isn't speaking to Ned, and George is worse than useless, I see no other way."
"You see a great deal, Miss Warwick. My mother should call on you in a few days." And, with that, he limped toward Edward, the mahogany cane tapping in time to the music.
As promised, Cecily York arrived just in time for tea the next day, much to Anne's mother's consternation. Anne watched with well-concealed admiration as that lady deflected Isabel's heated questions about her new daughter-in-law while encouraging her mother's confidences on the subject of her father's moods. It was only when Anne herself suggested a stroll in Hyde Park that she managed to catch Mrs York alone.
"I was told," Mrs York said, deliberately slowing her steps such that Anne's mother and Isabel moved further away, "that you wished to speak to me."
"I do, Mrs York," replied Anne. "My father has never approved of the higher education of women, and Mother will not gainsay him. I was told that you studied at Newnham College, and had hoped you might put in a good word for me."
She had the same direct stare as her youngest son, though her eyes were blue like Edward's. "You wish to countermand your father?"
"I wish to be educated, ma'am. I don't see it as such a sin." She considered briefly before continuing. "I am no beauty, Mrs York, not like my sister." Or Elizabeth Woodville-Grey. "And I have no desire to be sold to the highest bidder who will take me for my money and spend it all on his mistresses."
That prompted a smile, albeit a fleeting one. "You have a cynical view of marriage."
"How can I not, with my parents?" Anne stopped, taking both of her hands. "Please. I can't bear it here."
There was an odd light of sympathy in the older woman's eyes. "Leave it to me, my dear. I will do what I can."
***
Cecily York was as good as her word. Some ten months later, Anne received a letter from Newnham College, Cambridge, offering her a place for the upcoming academic year. A letter now pinched between her father's fingers, tapping on the burnished wood surface of his desk.
"And what, exactly, do you propose to gain by this?" He settled back in his chair, leather squeaking beneath his weight. It was rare enough that he was in London these days, and she had managed to catch him several hours before he was due to depart for Paris for what seemed like the hundredth time. Of course, it was a mistake to assume that just because he was on the verge of leaving, he could be caught off guard. "They don't confer degrees on women, you know."
"I'm aware of it, Father. I merely wish to enrich my mind. Is that a problem?"
Her father's nose wrinkled. "You are a young lady with a great fortune, Annie. This college business is little more than a waste of time and funds."
"But it will make me happy." Anne leant forward so she was looking at him through her lashes as Bel did. "Daddy, please?"
"Oh, Annie," he chuckled, "a valiant effort, but you'll need a great deal more practice. And it's not the sort of thing one learns at a women's college."
"How do you know that?" she demanded, cheeks flushing. "I want to go. And you shan't stop me." Snatching the letter from him, she stormed out of the room, his laughter echoing in her wake.
It was Bel who found her later, head buried beneath her pillow. In a whiff of expensive silk and flowery scent, she settled on the bed. "I just can't see why you want to go to some stuffy college. Don't you want a Season?"
Anne refused to dignify that with anything more than a groan.
"Well," Bel mused, "I suppose there will be a lot of men about, it being Cambridge. No doubt you'll find someone suitable there. Although..." Anne could all but hear the smile in her voice, and withdrew her head to glare at her sister, "there is always George's younger brother."
"Bel, don't you think of anything else?"
"I'm only looking out for you, Annie," her sister protested. "You need to think about your future."
"Which is why I'm going to Cambridge, Bel. No matter what Father says." Anne pulled herself upright, hugging the pillow tightly. "And don't look at me that way. I'm not you, Bel. I don't want a Season and a closetful of gowns I'm never going to wear. And just because I spoke to George's brother doesn't mean I'm at all interested."
Bel's shoulders relaxed. "Thank goodness, Annie. He gives me the shivers."
Anne opened her mouth to agree but closed it again, suddenly unsure. "He's a bit odd, yes."
"I suppose it makes sense, though. When you think of his poor mother, and what happened to his father..." Bel shook her head. "It's a miracle, really, that Ned and George turned out as well as they did."
"Bel," Anne took her sister's hand, "will you help me convince Father? He'll listen to you."
"But is it truly what you want, Annie?" Bel's eyes were the limpid blue of the summer sky, all sweetness. "If it is, of course, I'll help you. But..."
"It is. I know you don't understand, but I promise you it's what I want."
Isabel had no talent for manipulation, and, indeed, was possibly the worst liar Anne had ever met. But what she lacked in talent, she made up for with an air of angelic innocence and the enviable ability to burst into tears on the spot. The next time their father was in London, some few weeks later, Bel went to work while Anne prowled about the library, trying to distract herself.
It was her father who entered, a wry smile on his face. "My congratulations. She cried very prettily and would not leave me be until I promised to let you go to Cambridge."
"I play to my strengths, Father. One of them simply happens to be Bel. Although," she added, "I did have a contingency plan."
He raised his eyebrows. "Did you, now?"
"Either you let me go to Cambridge," Anne paused for effect, "or I tell Cecily York about how much time you've been spending in Paris recently."
"Oh, Annie." Her father laughed. "I have no doubt that Cecily York knows all she might wish to know about my activities. But I appreciate your efforts, and I suppose you might go to Cambridge, at least until it bores you."
Despite the sting of embarrassment, Anne accepted her victory as gracefully as she could, and consoled herself with the fact that she would be going to Cambridge after all.
It was everything she could have hoped for. London and her parents seemed a thousand miles away from the tranquil Cam and perfectly manicured quads, and even Bel's letters extolling the virtues of Paris fashion and George York could not mar Anne's spirits.
Even so, the rest of the world seemed determined to creep into Cambridge. She sat with a group of girls in the common room at Girton, listening to the wireless as King Edward gave up the throne for Wallis Simpson, and Anne could not help but remember the looks passed between Edward York and Elizabeth Woodville-Grey and wonder how they were faring. Her friends who had gone on holiday during Christmas returned with confusing stories about Paris and Berlin and red flags with bizarre symbols that seemed to be popping up everywhere.
Bel, of course, made no mention of these things and ignored them when Anne brought them up. At least that was the case until Bel appeared in her doorway one stormy evening in March, her face alight with excitement and a diamond sparkling on her wedding finger.
"We're married, Annie!"
Anne could only stare at her for several seconds before finally saying, "I still can't believe you've chosen to spend the rest of your life with George."
"He's such a dear, Annie, really. If you'd only get to know him, and you will now that he's your brother..."
"But what about Ned?" Anne stood, noting the uncertainty on her sister's face at the mention of her newly acquired brother-in-law. "He knows, doesn't he, Bel? Tell me Father told him."
Bel shrugged. "Of course he must have done. Although, I don't see why it matters. George isn't a child. He doesn't need Ned's permission for anything anymore."
Anne felt a cold stab of unease. "Ned's not an idiot, Bel, no matter what Father thinks. And don't start me on..."
"It doesn't matter, Annie. We're married now, in the eyes of God and man." She straightened, but her lips still formed a childish pout. "And nothing Ned or that jumped-up wife of his can do will change that." Bel held out her hands, falling to her knees in front of Anne's chair. "Be happy for me, Annie, please. It's what I wanted. And you're happy here, aren't you? With all your...books?"
Anne sighed. "Yes, I am happy here, Bel. And I wish you all the best with George, I do. But, Bel, this just doesn't seem right. Didn't you want a grand wedding? A white dress and," she grimaced, "me in pink or something dreadful like that? You've been threatening it for years."
"I did, yes, but this was the only way, Daddy said." There was a visible moue of disappointment. "I would have liked a proper wedding at St George's, but...what does it matter now, anyway? I'm married all the same. And Daddy has promised me a proper trousseau in Paris. Annie, please. Will you come with us?"
"If it's not during term-time," she found herself saying, "I suppose. I daresay someone must keep you from buying anything too horrid."
"Horrid!" Bel laughed. "You'd have me in nothing but black and pearls, which won't suit me in the least." She threw her arms around Anne. "I miss you, Annie."
Anne kept her misgivings to herself, even when she received a congratulatory letter from Cecily York. Though she sought to read between the lines to find some indication of what Ned--or anyone else--really thought of George's marriage, there was nothing. That was somehow far more troubling than any display of rage.
Easter Term came to an end in a haze of exams, punts, and Pimm's cocktails, and Anne prepared for the upcoming journey for Paris. Bel was in raptures at the gorgeous flat in the Marais, but Anne kept her attention on her father, who was smiling in a manner she could only find sinister.
He took her aside in the library some few weeks later. "Your sister seems very happy, does she not?" At Anne's noncommittal shrug, he settled himself into the chair opposite her. "Annie, I know you do not have a particularly good opinion of George."
"Does that matter?" Anne set her book aside. "Bel is already married to him, so it's quite clear how much my opinion is worth."
"Annie, don't be difficult. I too have come to find him...disappointing." The words were oddly expressionless, and Anne narrowed her eyes at him. "As a result, I have decided to take certain measures." Rising, he held out his hand to her. "There's someone I wish you to meet, Annie."
Despite her unease, Anne nodded, and followed him to the taxi waiting outside. It pulled to a stop in the Place Vendôme, just outside the Ritz. Her father walked straight to the lift, nodding in passing to the concierge, and Anne began to wonder how often he'd come here, how long this had all been happening. He claimed that Cecily York--and by extension Ned--knew already, but what did that even mean?
A maid in shabby but well-kept livery opened the door to one of the luxury appartements. She was saying something to Anne's father, but Anne could only stare at the woman standing by the window, clad in black from head to toe, red-painted lips clamped round the ivory handle of a cigarette holder. It was only when she smiled that Anne realised with a soft gasp where she had seen her before, in a grainy photograph, standing next to Edward York's father with just such a smile, perfect and cold.
Margaret Lancaster.
Part III