The Ring and the Crown

by Melissa de la Cruz

  The dance instructor nodded and blotted his forehead with a handkerchief. “Yes, yes, go ahead,” he said. “Perhaps there is a spell that might help Princess Marie to remember the steps.”

  Marie and Aelwyn went to the corner of the room to confer. “You’re not very nice to him, and you should be,” Aelwyn said. “He’s only trying to help. You’re not even trying.”

  “I’m tired,” Marie said stubbornly. “I need to rest.”

  “You look fine to me,” Aelwyn said firmly. “Maybe we should we send the court away?”

  “Is that possible?”

  “You’re the princess; you can do whatever you want.”

  Marie watched as Aelwyn walked over to the ranking lady-in-waiting and exchanged a few words with her. After a moment, the courtiers left the room, a few of them looking a bit miffed. She had forgotten how strong and forthright her friend could be. When they were little, Aelwyn had often been the one who told Marie what to demand on birthdays and holidays. She knew instinctively how to stretch the limits of Marie’s privilege, and when to push back.

  “Shall I send away the orchestra, too?” Aelwyn offered. “Maybe everyone but the violinist, for a melody.”

  “It’s like magic,” Marie said when the large cavernous room was empty—save for the two of them, the dance instructor, the violinist, and Gill, of course.

  “Are we ready to try again?” Pierre asked with a weary air.

  “Perhaps the princess should dance with a different partner,” Aelwyn suggested. “Her guard can take your place, Master Fontaine. What is your name, soldier?”

  “Oh Gill, you don’t have to,” Marie said, horrified and a bit excited as Gill stepped forward obediently.

  “Aelwyn is right. It might help you, because then I can see what you are doing and correct what you are doing wrong,” Pierre said. “Over here, please, Corporal; yes, just like that,” he said as Gill placed one hand on Marie’s waist and took her right hand with the other.

  Marie placed her hand on Gill’s shoulder and hoped he didn’t notice that her hands were sweaty. She felt self-conscious standing with him this way. She was physically affectionate with Gill, always in a purely platonic spirit. But this was the Lovers’ Waltz they had to master, and it was disconcerting and thrilling to be practicing it with Gill. Since the reality of the situation meant she would be dancing this with Leopold in a few weeks, it seemed almost cruel to dance it with the boy she wished could take his place.

  “All right, Marie?” he asked.

  “Let’s just get this over with,” she said testily.

  The violinist played, and Gill moved woodenly through the dance. He didn’t hold her any closer or tighter than necessary, and he had a hard look on his face as if he were in pain.

  “Hold her closer,” Pierre instructed. “You act as if she is a puppet; she is your partner! Dip her lower—closer—this is the Lovers’ Waltz!”

  Marie blushed. “You don’t have to do this,” she told him.

  Gill frowned grimly. “I do as told.”

  The violinist played the waltz, a romantic, elegant melody, the sound of the first blush of young love. It was traditionally the first dance of the Bal du Drap d’Or, and the most beautiful debutante performed it with her chosen partner as an homage to the enduring power of love. As a child, Marie had loved watching the chosen young couple perform the special dance. She had loved everything about the royal ball, from the heady music to the extravagant magic used on the ladies’ dresses. She remembered a dress made from sunshine itself; it glowed golden rays when the dancer twirled. Now it was her turn to shine, her turn to swoon and fall in love in front of the whole court. But she was not in love with the prince. He was rehearsing on his own time, as tradition dictated they would not perform the dance together until the fateful night.

  She wished Aelwyn had not suggested Gill dance with her, he looked so mortified and annoyed. He did not take the least bit of pleasure in holding her this way. She was embarrassed for herself and for her infatuation, for her greedy desire for any excuse to be close to him. She could tell he only wanted it to be over. Mercifully the lesson finally ended, and Marie was free to return to her room. She pushed Aelwyn inside and shut the door in Gill’s face.

  “Why did you do that?” she whispered fiercely. “Why did you get Gill to dance with me? I was so embarrassed!”

  “You need to learn how to dance for the waltz. I thought it would help. Master La Fontaine is so short.…I thought if you had a partner who was tall like Leopold, it would be easier,” said Aelwyn. “Wait, why are you so upset? The boy you were talking about before—the one who disappeared—it’s not—” she pointed to the door. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s him. Gill.”

  “But you told me he had been sent away—that you didn’t know if you would see him again.”

  “He came back.” Marie said. Except it wasn’t the same, not like before. He had returned, but he hardly spent any time with her anymore. After that first day when they’d read together, he never did again. He visited her less and less on his downtime, and if she had thought there was any indication of deeper feeling on his part, it appeared she was wrong, especially after his strained performance at the dance rehearsal.

  Aelwyn walked to the sideboard and found a bottle of mulberry wine. “Can I open this?”

  Marie nodded and brought out two goblets so Aelwyn could pour them drinks. “Winnie, you can’t tell anybody about how I feel about Gill.” She knocked back the wine with one gulp.

  “No—of course not,” Aelwyn said, taking a long drink from her glass.

  Marie held out her glass for another and Aelwyn obliged her. She sat down on the couch where she and Gill had spent many afternoons talking and reading books and felt melancholy. There was no stopping the season; every day brought her closer to the formal engagement, and after the engagement, the royal wedding. Already the dressmakers and seamstresses were fitting her for a wedding trousseau. She had argued that she was not engaged yet, but no one would listen. Everything had to be ready if she was to be married by the beginning of June.

  “Aelwyn—have you ever been in love?” she asked.

  Aelwyn finished her glass and poured another. “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “With Lanselin, was it? In Avalon?”

  “Yes.” Aelwyn sighed. “I will tell you one day, but not today. We might need more wine for that story.”

  “Was it—did he—was your heart broken?”

  Aelwyn looked away. “Yes,” she said again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Marie, I know it is not my place to tell you, but you can’t think that anything can happen with this soldier of yours.”

  “I know. But don’t worry, he doesn’t feel the same about me. We’re just friends, and we’ll always be just friends.”

  “You’re certain he doesn’t feel the same way about you?”

  “I’m sure,” Marie said, thinking of Gill’s stern demeanor that afternoon. How stiffly he’d held her. This time, she couldn’t keep the sadness out of her voice.

  The plush, twelve-room parlor suite that Ronan and Vera called home for the month-long voyage boasted the most luxurious accommodations on the boat by far. Even Whitney Van Owen could not hide her surprise at finding Ronan ensconced in such beautiful quarters when she came to visit the first week. “Great digs!” Whitney had exclaimed upon taking a seat by the window nook. “Yours has a library?” she asked, impressed. As well as a dining room, a dressing room, several sitting rooms and a marble bath, Ronan wanted to add, but did not. Best to act as if this was all her proper due, and not some strange twist of good fortune that had finally come her way.

  “Mama is incensed,” Whitney confided, her pinkie pointing straight up as she sipped her tea. “So far we’ve only been invited to a luncheon with the queen, and not the actual royal ball. The Duchess of Wiltshire promised that she would get us in, but so far hasn’t been successful in actually landing us an invitation
. Isn’t it tragic? To go all this way, only to have lunch!”

  Ronan laughed. She found herself warming up to the girl. Whitney had never been so frank with her before, and she realized with a pang that the reason why her friend was being so voluble now was because she thought she and Ronan were equals, due to the opulence of her current surroundings. If she knew the truth of the Astor finances, she would not have been so forthcoming with her own family’s failures.

  “But you are going, I’m sure?” Whitney asked. “Lucky duck!”

  With pride, Ronan recounted how her invitation to the Bal du Drap d’Or had arrived by regular post, but once she touched it, it had opened in a spectacular manner—the envelope bursting in a shimmer of light and stars, gold letters spinning in the air to spell out her name.

  “Do you think it’s true what everyone’s saying, that the queen will announce the princess’s engagement at the ball?” Whitney asked.

  “Princess Marie-Victoria is getting married?”

  Whitney nodded. “Mother heard from a friend in London right before we left. She is to marry that Prussian prince as part of the peace treaty—you know, the good-looking one—and they are already preparing the city for a wedding.”

  “Leopold? She’s going to marry Leopold?” Ronan raised an eyebrow. She’d set her heart on winning his, but of course he was already spoken for. She should have known better than to hope a common American like her had a chance at a crowned royal. But a girl could dream, couldn’t she?

  “Yes, that’s what Mother said,” Whitney sighed. “That princess is another lucky duck!” She set down her cup and gathered her skirts. “You know, Leopold’s brother is supposed to be on this ship, but I haven’t seen him around anywhere. Anyway, I should go. Mother will wonder where I am, and we’re supposed to dine with some friend of the duchess tonight—the campaign for a spot on the guest list continues!” She smirked. “I told Mama to offer her more money!”

  “Whitney!”

  “Oh please, don’t you know that’s how it works? Don’t be so naïve!”

  Ronan bid Whitney good day, and told Vera she would take a stroll around the deck to take in some sea air. Her governess waved her off with a smile. Ronan had noticed she had been decidedly more agreeable since they’d settled into their sumptuous rooms. Luxury had a way of doing that to a person, and far be it for her to begrudge the old girl the pleasure of being catered to, hand and foot, by the stateroom’s butler. Even their assigned table in the banquet hall was located in the “Gold Coast” area of the room nearest the windows, so they could look out over the serene waves of the Atlantic while they dined on oysters and champagne.

  The promenade was nicely shaded, and passengers lounged on the jaunty blue-and-white deck chairs, sipping their mint juleps and Pimm’s cups. There were several croquet and pétanque games in progress. Ronan said hello to a few familiar faces: dowager ladies in pearls and lace gloves, older gentlemen in ascots and top hats. Many of them were from the finest families of New York, Virginia, and Newport, along with several Europeans heading home as well.

  She found a cozy spot to perch and twirled her parasol, thinking she made a nice picture in her pretty pastels against the blue sky and sea. Even so, she was still surprised when someone said exactly the same thing. “What a nice picture you make!” It was the boy from the docks, the one with the bruise on his cheek and the black eye, although both wounds were healing nicely. His face was starting to come into focus underneath all the swelling.

  She murmured her thanks and turned away.

  “Hey, no need to be so shy. I thought we were friends!”

  “Friends?” she said, aghast. “Wherever did you get that idea?”

  He grinned and didn’t answer. “Having a good trip?”

  She nodded curtly and attempted to turn away again, but he wasn’t having it. “I’m a little seasick myself, but that can’t be helped,” he said.

  “You could try watching the horizon. Supposedly it centers your equilibrium,” she said.

  “Is that so?” he asked, staring at the sea. “Hmm. You might just be right about that.”

  “You’re not supposed to be up here, you know,” she said. “This is for first-class passengers only. The porter comes around in a bit, and he’ll know you don’t belong here.”

  “Oh? That’s very nice of you to be worried about my well-being.” He smiled. “What will they do? Throw me off the ship? I’d like to see them try.”

  “You like to live dangerously, do you?” she said.

  “Ah, so you do remember me!” he crowed. “See, I told you we were friends.” He nudged her elbow. Against her will, she found herself smiling back at him.

  “That’s more like it,” he said. Footsteps rounded the corner: the ship’s porter, offering drinks. His smile faded. “Well, I suppose that’s my cue,” he said. “Like Heathcliff, I’ve got to run away.”

  “Wait!” she called.

  “Yes, Cathy?” he asked with a grin.

  She bit her lip. “Will I see you again?”

  “Would you like to?” He winked. “I’m just teasing. Same time, same place, tomorrow?”

  She hesitated, unsure why she had asked. Something had propelled her: a desire to not let him get away, not to say good-bye just yet. She couldn’t help but say, “No—I mean, yes, but not here.”

  The next day, Ronan insisted that Vera take the afternoon off to visit with a friend she had made, who was a governess for another family. “Go and catch up over a long and luxurious six-course tea,” she urged. “I am quite content to remain here and relax quietly.”

  “If you’re sure, dear,” Vera said doubtfully. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “I’m sure. And take as long as you want. Please.”

  Once her governess was dispatched, Ronan heaved a sigh of relief.

  Promptly at three o’clock, there was a knock on the door. She opened the door and sure enough, the boy who’d styled himself Heathcliff was there with a smile on his face. “Is this your room? All this?” he said, taking a look around.

  Ronan nodded, feeling somewhat embarrassed at the luxury. She had been intent on finding a private place for them where he wouldn’t be run off by the porters on the upper deck, but it seemed fraudulent to pass it all off as hers. “I mean, it’s all my room, but it’s not really mine. It’s a long story.”

  He walked over to the library books, pulling out titles, murmuring to himself. “Have you read this?” he asked. “This?”

  She shook her head, not paying too much attention to the books. She began to think it might have been the wrong idea to invite him over. Now that he was here, she wasn’t sure what to do with him. But he saved the afternoon, as somehow she knew he would. “I say,” he said, spying the game room. “Do you play billiards?”

  From that day on, every afternoon Vera went to have tea with her friend. Ronan met Heath, as she came to think of him, in her room to play billiards and drink champagne. He was very opinionated on what kind of champagne to order, and gave her a list of the best vintages to ask for from the room’s stewards.

  “The ’87 Canard-Duchene! A very good year,” he said as he popped the cork and the bottle frothed with bubbles.

  She laughed as he poured them two tall stems.

  “Prost!” he said heartily.

  “Cheers,” she smiled, taking a big sip. “How do you know so much about champagne?”

  He shrugged. “A hobby of mine.”

  She put down her glass and picked up her cue, and sent the white ball spinning in a complicated move that sank two colored balls in different pockets.

  “Good shot,” he said, raising his glass in salute.

  “My dad taught me to play.” She smiled.

  “Thanks, Dad. So,” he said, “shall we play a game?”

  “Aren’t we playing one now?” she asked.

  “Oh, but this one is much more fun.” He waggled his eyebrows and set up his pool cue. He looked like a sleek, handsome panther as he
leaned over and elegantly dispatched the remaining balls on the table.

  “What kind of game?” she asked.

  He told her the rules with a grin and she shook her head. “No, I’m not taking off my clothes for you. Not one glove,” she said. “Don’t even think about it!”

  “It was worth a shot.” He smiled. “You can’t blame me for trying,” he said as he racked up the balls.

  Ronan looked over her shoulder at the door. Vera was in the middle of tea right now, on the second course, gorging herself on scones and cream. Ronan, on the other hand, was alone with a strange, wicked boy in her rooms, and he had just proposed they play a game where they take their clothes off. It was the farthest thing from being a lady, and she would never in a million years acquiesce to something so vulgar.…But somehow, the way he proposed it, and the naughty smile on his face, made her think twice about saying no. It was just a little fun.…She felt a wild impulse to enjoy life, to be a little free-spirited—to be that crazy girl who had no inhibitions, no worries, before she went to London to be a lady and find a husband. She wanted a chance to be young and reckless, and “sow her wild oats,” as they say.

  “Fine,” she said, picking up the pool cue and carefully wiping the ends with chalk. “I have to warn you, though, I’m wearing a lot of layers.” She smiled as she sent the balls flying in every direction with the opening break.

  Isabelle pulled the sheets up to her chest and turned away from Leo so she could reach for the candle and light her cigarette. She thought her dark hair would make a pretty picture against the satin pillow. She was always very conscious of the best angles and the best light for her features; conscious of her effect on men; on him. Sometimes it was as if she were looking down on her scene, directing it, rather than living it. It gave her a pleasant sensation to have control over the atmosphere, as there were so few things she had control over these days.