Free The Shadow Queen by Rebecca Dean

Edward were daydreams they comfortably shared, though Wallis was well aware that Pamela’s daydreams had a far greater chance of coming to fruition than had her own. When Pamela returned to London for her debutante coming-out year she would, thanks to her stepfather’s friendship with the king, at least have the opportunity of meeting Prince Edward. Her own coming-out would take place in Baltimore, and though she was greatly looking forward to it, she wouldn’t be being presented to King George and Queen Mary—as Pamela, along with all the other debutantes of her year, would be. It was something, whenever their debutante year was under discussion, that she had to try very hard not to be jealous about.
    The years she was enjoying were the happiest she had ever known. Harsh words were never spoken at Biddle Street. On the rare occasions when she misbehaved, it was her mother who disciplined her—and Alice was far too loving to ever be cross with her for long.
    At Arundell, too, she seldom found herself in trouble.
    “That’s because you’re far too clever to be found out,” Pamela said grumpily when, after it had been Wallis’s idea that they and their classmates should spy on a Masonic ceremony they knew was taking place in a building close to Arundell, they had been discovered and hauled up in front of a furious Miss Carroll. All, that is, apart from Wallis, who had adroitly slipped away unobserved.
    “You’re just not fast enough on your feet,” Wallis had said with a smirk, dodging away before Pamela could lay violent hands on her.
    Other things, as well as home life at Biddle Street and school life at Arundell, were also going well for her. Every Sunday morning she went to church with her grandmother and her Uncle Sol, and afterward she had lunch with them on East Preston Street, where she enjoyed the sense of being part and parcel of a highly respectable family.
    I n the spring vacation of 1912 she went again to Pot Springs. It had been two years since she had last been there, and though she’d then been thirteen and eager for Henry to make a romantic move toward her, he hadn’t done so. In Henry’s eyes, her being thirteen had, apparently, been little different from her being eleven. He had still rated her far too young to be kissed. There was, however, a lot of difference between being thirteen and being fifteen.
    On her first morning down to breakfast, she wore her glossy hair plaited into a long thick braid, a crisp white shirtwaist, a black currant–colored paneled skirt that barely skimmed a pair of the latest Mary Janes, and, cinching her narrow waist, a broad black patent leather belt. At first glance she looked to be at least seventeen, and she knew it.
    “I think you may want to change into a riding skirt and boots, Wallis,” her Uncle Emory said jovially as she joined him at the table. “Henry is already at the stables waiting for you. He has a new hunter he wants to show off.”
    Henry’s eagerness to be out riding with her again sent a ripple of pleasure down her spine. She helped herself to sausages, determined not to show her own eagerness. Making Henry wait—and then arriving dressed in a way that indicated going riding with him wasn’t top of her list of things to do—would be a great tease.
    She spun breakfast out for as long as possible and then, with a fast-beating heart, forced herself to keep to a leisurely stroll as she made her way toward the stables.
    He was dressed for riding and was waiting for her at the large barn where all Pot Springs’ horses were stabled. At the sight of her shoes and skirt he quirked an eyebrow. It was a query she ignored. Making him believe she was no longer desperately eager to spend time with him on horseback was the most fun she’d had in ages.
    “Uncle Emory said you had a new hunter you wanted to show me.”
    “I have. I think he’s going to impress you.”
    Even though it was two years since they’d last met, he didn’t give her a hug