Chapter 4 - THE WEDDING GOWN'S HIDDEN STITCH
“Too late for what?” I demanded.
Prince Lucien stared at the photograph in his father's hand.
“Lucien,” the King said, “answer her.”
But the prince shook his head.
“We need to reach Mother before anyone else does.”
Inspector Shaw stepped between us.
“Your Royal Highness, if you know something relevant, you're going to tell me now.”
Lucien looked toward the door.
For the first time, I understood that he was not simply an arrogant prince protecting his bride.
He was terrified of something.
And whatever frightened him was bigger than his wedding.
“There's a document in the gallery,” he said.
“What document?” the inspector asked.
“A restoration record. From twenty-nine years ago.”
The King sank slowly into his chair.
“Lucien.”
His son's voice cracked.
“You should have told me.”
Nobody spoke.
Then the King looked at Inspector Shaw.
“Take us to the gallery.”
The Royal Heritage Gallery occupied the oldest wing of Bellmont Palace.
Its walls were lined with portraits, ceremonial robes, antique jewelry, and objects donated by generations of Bellmont families.
As we entered, I smelled something unexpected.
Old fabric.
Polished wood.
And the faint lavender scent Mother used to keep moths away from her work.
I hadn't smelled that combination since her funeral.
Queen Helena stood beside a glass exhibition case.
She wore a pale blue silk suit.
Her silver hair had come loose around her face.
An attendant hovered nearby with a chair, but she refused to sit.
When she saw me, her eyes filled with tears.
“Charlotte.”
I stopped.
She spoke my name with the same familiarity as the King.
“You look so much like Margaret.”
I suddenly felt twelve years old again, standing in Mother's shop while strangers talked about her remarkable hands.
But these weren't ordinary strangers.
They were the King and Queen.
“Your Majesty,” I said. “Did my sister bring you here?”
The Queen shook her head.
“Vivienne escorted me out of the reception. Then I asked to come here.”
“Why?”
“Because she said something that frightened me.”
“What did she say?”
Helena reached into her silver bag.
She removed Mother's thimble.
“Your sister told me that once she married Lucien, she intended to close your mother's apprenticeship program.”
My breath caught.
The apprenticeship program supported sixty-three young people across Bellmont.
Many came from families that couldn't afford expensive training.
Some were learning to restore buildings.
Others were studying traditional crafts.
Mother had started with four students and two sewing machines.
Now the program was her greatest legacy.
“Vivienne can't close it,” I said.
The Queen's expression was grave.
“She believes she can.”
“Because of the transfer?”
“Because someone has convinced her that controlling the reserve fund will give her authority over the entire trust.”
I thought of Vivienne's diamond bracelet.
Her expensive clothes.
Her desperate desire to belong inside the palace.
“She doesn't understand the trust,” I said.
“Perhaps not,” Helena answered. “But someone close to her does.”
Prince Lucien stood rigid beside the doorway.
I turned toward him.
“Who?”
He didn't answer.
The Queen looked at her son.
“Tell her about Adrian Ashcroft.”
The name landed like a stone.
Ashcroft Private Bank.
Lucien swallowed.
“Adrian manages several of my investments.”
“Does he manage my sister's?”
“Yes.”
“And Bellmont Riverside Holdings?”
Lucien looked down.
“Yes.”
Inspector Shaw stepped forward.
“Then Mr. Ashcroft is a person of interest in an attempted fraudulent transfer.”
The Queen shook her head.
“It's worse than that.”
She approached the exhibition case.
Inside stood a magnificent crimson ceremonial gown embroidered with gold thread.
A plaque described its restoration twenty-nine years earlier.
RESTORED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF MARGARET HALE.
I stared at Mother's name.
I'd spent my childhood watching her repair ordinary coats and school uniforms.
I had never known she had restored royal garments.
Helena touched the glass.
“Your mother discovered something hidden inside this gown.”
“What?”
“A record of payments made from the Crown's historical preservation fund into private accounts.”
King Frederick closed his eyes.
The Queen continued.
“The accounts belonged to men who were supposed to protect Bellmont's heritage. Instead, they were selling properties to developers and using public money to conceal the losses.”
“Why didn't Mother report it?”
“She did,” the King said.
I turned.
He looked older than he had an hour earlier.
“She came directly to me. The investigation led to several resignations, but we never recovered every document.”
“Who was involved?”
He hesitated.
“Adrian Ashcroft's father was one of them.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Twenty-nine years later, the same family was once again attempting to access protected funds.
“That can't be a coincidence.”
“No,” the Queen said. “It isn't.”
I looked at the gown.
“Where was the evidence hidden?”
“In the original lining.”
“Is it still there?”
The Queen's expression shifted.
“That is what I came to discover.”
Inspector Shaw called for a curator.
While we waited, I examined the embroidery through the glass.
Mother had taught me to recognize her stitching.
She always made one nearly invisible adjustment when repairing historic garments.
A tiny blue thread beneath the final seam.
Her signature.
I found it near the gown's left shoulder.
Then another.
And another.
My heart began beating faster.
“Those stitches shouldn't be there.”
The curator arrived carrying white cotton gloves.
The Queen authorized the case to be opened.
I approached the gown carefully.
Under the left shoulder seam, Mother had embroidered three small blue crosses.
Not decorative.
Instructions.
A code we used when I helped her mend clothes.
Three crosses meant:
Look beneath the second layer.
I turned to the curator.
“May I examine the lining?”
She hesitated.
The Queen nodded.
With gloved hands, I lifted the inner fabric.
There was a narrow concealed pocket.
Inside lay a piece of folded paper.
I removed it.
The paper was old but intact.
Across the top, in Mother's handwriting, were the words:
FOR CHARLOTTE, WHEN THE TIME COMES.
My eyes burned.
I opened it.
Inside was a simple drawing of a silver watch.
Beneath it, Mother had written:
The hands tell the hour. The back tells the truth.
I reached into my pocket.
The silver watch.
The same watch I'd carried into the palace.
My fingers trembled as I turned it over.
There was a tiny indentation near the hinge.
I pressed it.
The back opened.
Inside was a second compartment I had never known existed.
And tucked inside that compartment was a miniature photograph.
I recognized Mother immediately.
She was younger.
Smiling.
Holding a newborn baby wrapped in a pale yellow blanket.
Beside her stood Queen Helena.
On the back, written in Mother's handwriting, were three words.
VIVIENNE'S FIRST DAY.
The Queen made a small sound.
I looked at her.
“Why were you there when my sister was born?”
Helena began to cry.
May you like
And King Frederick whispered:
“Because Vivienne was never supposed to know who paid for her adoption.”
