“The duke is very … ,” Christian began.
“Blunt?” Marianne smiled as her blushes faded.
“I was going to say loud, but blunt would work as well.”
“I swear I didn’t put him up to it,” she said as they took their places for the next dance, a valse.
“I believe you,” he told her.
As they twirled around the floor, he caught a glimpse of the black-haired girl again. She was still sitting in her chair by the wall, though she had fewer suitors this time. She didn’t even tap her foot to the music, but sat with a frozen look of polite interest on her face. Christian noticed that she had no dance card dangling from her wrist, and wondered if she were crippled.
“Looking at Poppy?” Marianne raised a dark brow. “Quite a stunner, I know! I’ll never compete!”
“You are quite beautiful,” he said, the compliment coming easily to his lips. It helped that it was true. “I just wondered why she doesn’t dance. She’s the only young lady sitting out.”
“Poppy doesn’t dance,” Marianne confided. “Ever.” She studied his face, making Christian uncomfortable. “Don’t you know who she is? She’s from Westfalin … ?”
Christian stumbled and nearly tripped over Marianne’s feet. When they recovered he said, “Is she one of those princesses?”
Marianne’s face hardened. “There’s no need to say it that way,” she told him. “Poppy is my second cousin, you know.”
“I’m terribly sorry, I meant no offense.” Christian heartily wished he’d been able to get some sleep earlier. He felt incredibly slow-witted and was afraid he was going to trip again, with his tongue or his feet. “It’s just that I’d heard about the … slippers … and that one of … the Westfalin princesses would be here too.”
In fact, it had nearly kept his father from sending him. When the letter outlining the travel arrangements had arrived, King Rupert had mentioned that one of his cousin’s daughters would also be present. He had probably meant to show how generous and peaceable he was, but it had alarmed King Karl to no end.
“Witches loose in Castleraugh!” Karl had ranted. “You cannot go!” It was only when his wife and Christian had both pointed out that to back out now would insult both Westfalin and Breton, and perhaps cause the very international breach that this heir-swapping was to prevent, that he calmed down.
“Poppy says she’s worn out enough dancing slippers for five lifetimes,” Marianne said. “So she never dances.” She gave a little laugh, which let Christian know that his unintentional insult had been forgiven. “If there’s a card room, though, she usually plays.”
“Really?” He wondered if it were different here in Breton—back home the card rooms at balls were only for the gentlemen.
“It’s quite shocking,” Marianne assured him, guessing at his expression. “But she says there’s no point in being a wall-flower when she can earn some pin money off the gentlemen.”
“Is she good at cards?”
“I don’t think she’s ever lost a hand,” Marianne told him, as proud as if she were the one who’d taught her cousin to play.
“Really?” Christian decided that he wouldn’t mind meeting this odd Westfalian princess. She didn’t look at all like a witch, nor did she sound like the scheming heartbreaker he’d expected.
But he never got a chance to meet Poppy that night. Since George had insisted they arrive fashionably late, the valse with Marianne turned out to be the supper dance, so he escorted her in to the meal. It was quite sumptuous, and Marianne was good company. After supper he did his duty by dancing with the Laurence granddaughters.
After the third (rather bucktoothed) young Lady Laurence, Christian sat down by a window to catch his breath. He dozed for a time, something that would embarrass him later when he could think more clearly. What woke him was the sound of a struggle, followed by a young woman’s voice saying, “Get away from me, you fool!”
He sat up straight and looked around, finally locating the sound as coming from the garden behind him. There was no door in sight, and he was still somewhat groggy, so he simply went to the open window and half-leaped, half-fell out of it.
Christian landed on top of a burly young man who swore and punched him in the ear. He had a dim recollection of a bluish white skirt flickering away as the young lady ran off, and then a better punch from the burly young man connected with his nose and he lost consciousness.
Gossip
When the strange young man fell out of the window and started to fight Jasper Antwhistle, Poppy went to find a stick. She had no interest in getting a black eye trying to separate them, and their flailing around made it very likely. She thought that a fallen tree branch would be just the thing to jab at them until they separated.
Unfortunately, the Laurence garden was so well tended that there were no loose sticks lying around, and the fight had ended by the time she had gone into the ballroom and borrowed a walking stick from an amused older gentleman. There was quite a crowd gathered around the pair. The window-leaper was out cold, with blood streaming from his nose, and Antwhistle was claiming that he had been attacked without provocation.
Poppy did not quite know what to do. If she admitted that she had been in the garden with Antwhistle she would be branded a flirt or worse. But she didn’t want whoever this poor boy on the grass was to get the blame, either.
Then it turned out that he was a prince.
“Thank heavens,” she sighed to Marianne in the carriage on the way home. “One of the privileges of royalty: everyone wants to think the best of you.”
“Unless they don’t like you,” Marianne pointed out, accidentally reminding Poppy of the accusations against her family.
“Well, in this case they liked him,” she said, wincing.
Once the young man had been identified as the newly arrived Prince Christian, everyone had been more than willing to suggest that it had merely been an accident. Prince George claimed to have seen Christian dozing in a chair by the window, then suddenly wake and leap out that same window.
So the visiting prince was deemed overtired by his journey. He was given a cold compress and a cup of tea, and then sent back to Tuckington Palace to get some rest.
“All in all a most satisfactory evening,” Marianne announced.
Poppy had to laugh. “It ended with us standing in the garden, looking over an unconscious prince and a red-faced Jasper Antwhistle.” She paused, making sure that Lady Margaret was asleep before continuing. “Who was attacked, rather haphazardly, by Prince Christian after I slapped him for trying to kiss me and pinch my bottom at the same time.”
Marianne gasped, then giggled, and Poppy joined in.
The girls laughed all the way home to Seadown House. Lord Richard was waiting for them. He had had some out-of-town business to conduct, and was only just arriving home himself.
“Did you dance with all the handsome lads, my sweeting?” He chucked Marianne under the chin.
“A few.” She smiled. “Including the newly arrived Dane prince.”
“Who also escorted her to supper,” Poppy added.
“Is that so?” Lord Richard gave his daughter a searching look. “Don’t force yourself to fall in love with him just because he’s a prince,” he warned Marianne.
She rolled her eyes. “Please, Papa! If I had any romantic
notions about princes, Cousin George cured me of them long ago!”
“Good.” Lord Richard turned to Poppy next. “And you, my fine little cardsharp? Did you fill your purse this evening?”
Poppy made a face and held a dramatic hand to her fore-head. “Alas, the Laurences do not hold with gambling, so there was no card room,” she said. “I was forced to make small talk all night. That is, until Prince Christian fell out a window onto one of my bravos and ended the evening.”
As a result of this remark, Poppy and Marianne were up until dawn telling Marianne’s parents what had happened in the garden. Lady Margaret had been busy talking with som
e of the other chaperones, so she had heard the commotion but hadn’t known what it was about.
The girls omitted, by silent agreement, any mention of Antwhistle getting fresh with Poppy. Instead they merely said that Poppy and Antwhistle had gone for a walk in the garden, and that a bad dream the prince had had while dozing had led him to believe that Poppy needed rescuing. The adults gave them narrow looks, as if suspicious that certain events were being glossed over, but let it go.
Poppy found herself in her bedroom at last. She was sitting in her nightgown brushing out her hair when the oil lamp at her elbow suddenly flickered green. She looked down at it, but it was yellow again. She went back to brushing her hair and then climbed into bed.
She dreamed that she was back in the Palace Under Stone, being forced to dance until her feet bled.
As she whirled around the floor in Prince Blathen’s too-tight grip, she railed at him, using every swear word she could think of, but he just grinned down at her. She managed to free herself and looked for something to fight him with. She picked up a walking stick, the same one she had borrowed earlier, and whacked her erstwhile suitor with it. He crumbled to dust, but another prince took his place, and another and another.
“No,” she shouted. “No, no, no! You’re dead, and I will never dance again.”
The King Under Stone himself rose to face her. “Poppy, my flower,” he said. “You will dance again, and again, and again. You will never be free of us. We are your true family.”
He stretched out his arms to embrace her, and suddenly there was a crowd of strange people around him all reaching for Poppy as well. Their skin was too white and their smiles were cruel; some were old and some very young, and some grew steadily less human and more monstrous. She tried to run, but her feet were stuck to the stone floor. She raised her skirts and looked down at them. Her shoes were melting, gluing her to the floor.
“Noooo!”
Sweating, Poppy sat bolt upright in bed and looked around. The room was dark, and empty, and she didn’t want to lie down again. She put on her dressing gown and slippers and went down to the kitchen to see if she could make some sweet tea.
“Oh, Your Highness!” Mrs. Hanks, the housekeeper, struggled to her feet. She was sitting at the big table in the middle of the kitchen with another plump woman in an apron, who also stood and curtsied.
“Hello,” Poppy said. Seeing a strong resemblance between the two women, she asked, “Sisters?”
“Yes,” they said at the same time.
Poppy felt a wash of homesickness. She had never spent so many nights away from her twin. She wondered how Daisy was faring and if sometimes they were thinking of each other at the exact same moment.
Then she realized that Mrs. Hanks and her sister were staring at her, and made an effort to drag her mind back to the here and now. They were standing on each side of the table, their hands clutching at their starched aprons.
“Anything I can get for you, Your Highness?” Mrs. Hanks said at last. She and her sister shared a look. “With the Laurence’s ball going until the wee hours, we didn’t think anyone would notice if Louise snuck away to have a little chat.”
“Oh, of course,” Poppy said. “I just came in for some tea. Please, keep visiting. I shan’t tell a soul.”
They smiled at her and Mrs. Hanks’s sister sat back down. Mrs. Hanks, however, hurried to the stove and fixed Poppy a cup of peppermint tea, despite Poppy’s assurances that she could do it herself.
“So.” Feeling awkward, Poppy looked at Mrs. Hanks’s sister, Mrs. Mills. “Are you also …” She had to think of what they called it here in Breton. “In service?”
“Yes, I’m the head housekeeper at Tuckington Palace,” Mrs. Mills said with real pride.
Poppy could see why and she gave a low whistle of appreciation. “That must be … hectic.”
“It is, that’s why we have to sneak a visit whenever we can,” said Mrs. Hanks. She bustled over to the table and gave Poppy her tea, a bowl of sugar, and a plate of biscuits.
Never one to turn away free food, Poppy ate three biscuits immediately. Then she stirred sugar into the fragrant peppermint tea while listening to the two older women.
“She’s a real trial, Jane,” Mrs. Hanks’s sister was saying. “Can’t do a lick of work without breaking, spilling, or burning something. That’s why I couldn’t keep her with me, not at the palace! And now she’s about to be turned out of another place—her third!”
“Poor child,” Mrs. Hanks clucked. “I know she wasn’t born to it, but hasn’t she had enough experience by now?”
Mrs. Mills heaved a huge sigh. “That’s what makes it so hard. She can’t seem to do anything right, but if you correct her, she just cries. It’s easier to clean up the mess yourself, but there’s not many housekeepers as will put up with it.”
Poppy couldn’t stand it anymore. “Pardon me for eavesdropping, but who are you talking about?”
Mrs. Hanks and Mrs. Mills exchanged looks.
“Please? I won’t tell another soul,” Poppy wheedled. “Except Daisy and maybe Rose and Galen and Lily and Orchid,” she added to herself, but they weren’t in Breton so it hardly mattered.
Mrs. Mills leaned closer over the table. “Well, Your Highness, before I was at the palace I was the housekeeper for an earl’s family. They had a daughter named Eleanora, just a darling little thing with dark hair like yours, but blue eyes.” She smiled in reminiscence, and then her face clouded. “But the earl’s luck turned sour overnight. First they had to sell their beautiful country estate, then they sold most of the furniture in the town house. They let the staff go one by one, including me.” Her eyes were shiny with tears.
“Still,” she went on in a choked voice. “My lady was so good to me. She helped me get on at the palace. I was an under-housekeeper at first, but I’ve moved up smart enough.” She took a sip of her own tea. “Two years later, they lost everything. The earl died of apoplexy, and my lady of heartbreak.” A tear rolled down her plump cheek, and Mrs. Hanks put a hand on her sister’s arm. “Oh, silly me!” She wiped her face with the corner of her apron. “A month later, who should knock on the kitchen door but my own little Eleanora, without a friend in the world but me. I got her a job as an upstairs maid where I could keep an eye on her … ,” she trailed off.
“But that girl,” Mrs. Hanks finished for her sister, her voice hard. “That girl, who now insists on being called Ellen because it’s more ‘common sounding,’ has caused nothing but trouble. Sulking, ruining things, shirking her duties, and quitting jobs or being fired!” She gave her sister’s arm a squeeze. “You always were more patient than I, Louise. I’d have boxed the girl’s ears and set her to peeling potatoes in the scullery if she’d given me a tenth of that trouble.”
Poppy rather agreed with Mrs. Hanks. She’d often wondered what would happen to her if she was disowned (something her father frequently threatened). She had watched the maids, and decided that she could probably make a go of it. She certainly wouldn’t beg help from someone and then treat her the way this Eleanora/Ellen was treating Mrs. Hanks’s poor sister.
“Mrs. Shields, the Laurences’ housekeeper,” the sister said, having composed herself, “says that if she makes one more mistake, she’s out on the street for sure. They made her hide in the scullery during the ball, so she wouldn’t accidentally injure a guest or set the house on fire!”
“If she’s sacked just send her here,” Mrs. Hanks said. “I’ll give her a job.”
Poppy finished her tea in silence, wondering how soon Ellen would be working for the Seadowns, and if she was really as horrible as Mrs. Hanks made her out to be.
Odd
Ahem, ahem, Your Highness?”
By now Christian was so used to the red-haired maid’s skittishness that he didn’t look up from the letter he was writing. Despite her years serving the Bretoner royal family, she seemed to find Christian highly intimidating.
“Put it on the table, please,” he said, and we
nt on describing the opera he had seen the night before. He was writing to the oldest of his sisters, ten-year-old Margrete, and he knew that she would want each act described in detail.
The sound of an entire tea tray falling to the hearth was too much to ignore, however.
“What in the world?” He dropped his quill and turned to see the girl standing in the middle of a pile of broken china, tears welling from her eyes.
“Oh, Your Highness! I’m so sorry!” She pointed to the puddle of tea. “It looked green!”
“Green?” He frowned at the brown liquid.
“I thought … it glowed … just for a moment. I was so startled!”
“Glowed green? That is odd.” He shrugged. “It looks fine now, though. Here, I’ll help you gather it up.”
She turned bright red and gave a little laugh, wiping her eyes with her apron. “No, no, Your Highness! I’m not half so bad as Ellen; Mrs. Mills won’t sack me over this.”
“Ellen?”
“Oh, a maid from a few years back,” the girl chattered, now suddenly at ease with him as they squatted by the hearth and gathered up the shards of china. She mopped up the tea with a napkin and wrung it out in the remains of the pot. “She broke everything she touched; it was awful. Mrs. Mills gave her second and third chances, but Their Majesties found out and she was fired.”
“I see,” Christian said. He handed her the tray, and she bobbed a curtsy and went out.
“I’ll be right back,” she promised.
When he turned around he saw a green gleam, just like the maid had said. This one came from the oil lamp on his writing desk. He went over to tweak the wick, and the flame was yellow and orange as it always was. As he fiddled with it, it guttered and smoked and went out. He needed to finish his letter, but the lamp wouldn’t relight. The wick felt slick and cold, and the oil in the cut glass bowl was oddly discolored.
Christian rang for a footman, who brought him a new lamp and reminded him that it was almost time for his ride with the princesses. Putting aside the letter to his sister with a sigh, he changed into riding clothes.
Princess of Glass Page 3