Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Royal Nursery
"Margaret," Alexander whispered, his eyes widening.
My mother stumbled into the light, ignoring the sea of aristocrats who parted before her like the Red Sea. Her eyes locked directly onto me, then moved to the toddler in my arms. Tears cut clean tracks through the rain on her cheeks.
"I’m sorry, Clara," she sobbed, her voice trembling across the hushed sanctuary. "I promised your real father on his deathbed that I would keep you safe from this viper's nest. But I couldn't let him marry the woman who destroyed your family."
"Shut her up!" an older, booming voice barked from the front row.
It was Duke Sterling—Victoria’s father. His military medals clinked against his chest as he stood up, his face purple with rage. "Alexander, this is an orchestrated farce! Call the palace guard and clear the room! This wedding must proceed by royal decree!"
"There will be no wedding today, Duke Sterling," Alexander replied coldly. He tore off his silk boutonnière and threw it onto the white marble floor, grinding the white rose beneath his boot.
Victoria grabbed Alexander’s arm, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his wool uniform. "Alexander, please! Think of the crown! Think of the stability of the realm! If this scandal leaks to the press—"
"The press?" I found my voice, though it shook with a hurricane of emotions. "You threatened to murder my mother four hours ago! You knew I existed, and you buried the truth!"
Victoria turned her glare on me, her blue eyes blazing with unadulterated venom. "You are nothing! A common waitress living off scraps in an American suburb! You have no name, no title, and no place in this palace!"
"She has Eleanor's blood," Alexander countered, stepping between Victoria and me. His broad shoulders completely shielded Oliver and me from the bride's frantic reach. "And unlike you, she doesn't reek of blood and deceit."
Oliver whimpered again, rubbing his wet cheek against my collarbone. Instinctively, I swayed gently from side to side, humming the soft, low melody my mother used to sing to me when I had night terrors as a child in Baltimore.
The moment the melody left my lips, several elderly ladies in the royal gallery gasped aloud.
Alexander froze completely, staring down at me in absolute shock.
"Where... where did you learn that lullaby?" he whispered, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"My mother sang it to me," I stammered, looking at Margaret. "Every night."
Margaret stepped forward, her voice breaking. "It’s not an American song, Clara. It is the ancient cradle song of the Whitmore dynasty. Only mothers of the royal bloodline are taught the notes. Princess Eleanor sang it every evening to Oliver before she closed her eyes forever."
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"That's impossible," Duke Sterling shouted. "Eleanor Whitmore was an only child! The royal archives confirm it!"
"The archives were doctored twenty-four years ago by you, Duke Sterling," Margaret said, pulling a yellowed, wax-sealed leather portfolio from beneath her soaked coat. "And I have the original sealed birth ledger signed by the late King."
