Jeffrey: Chapter Ten
Elspeth’s peals of laughter rang down the hall and through the closed door of Jeffrey’s rooms. She was certainly up early for someone who’d danced until 3 a.m., particularly someone who rarely rose before ten if she could help it. Jeffrey followed the sound of her mirth into the sitting room, where she and Imogen sat side by side on a sofa, two piles of envelopes between them. Elspeth clutched one in her hand, giggling; Imogen looked confused and unhappy and angry.
“Are you laughing at Imogen?” Jeffrey asked, angry himself. Elspeth waved the envelope at him and shook her head, still overcome with laughter.
“These all came for her this morning,” she explained, “and she can’t read Tremontanese so she asked me to, to…” She began laughing again, and Imogen exclaimed in Kirkellish and stood, knocking over both piles.
“Elspeth, Imogen isn’t in on whatever has you laughing like a drain,” Jeffrey said. “Imogen, can I read these for you?”
She glared, then scooped up half of one pile and shoved it at him. “I do not think it is funny,” she said.
Jeffrey removed a note from a cheap paper envelope and glanced at it. “This says Marcus Browne would like the pleasure of your company at dinner tomorrow, 1 p.m.” He handed it back to her. “This one is an invitation to a poetry recitation…this one is for supper…this one is, hah, an invitation to watch the Kirkellan race at the track…”
He squared them in his hand and tapped them against his thigh. “It seems your appearance at the reception last night has made you popular,” he said lightly, but inside he was seething. He knew most of those names, and none of them were people he thought Imogen should associate with—lazy, womanizing gadabouts who, if they took her out for a meal, would probably expect her to pay the tab.
“There are more, Jeffrey!” Elspeth giggled. “Lots more! Some of them are diplomatic invitations, but most of them are from Imogen’s admirers! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Elspeth,” Jeffrey said, trying to keep his inner seething from turning hotter and more angry, “are you laughing at the idea that Imogen might have admirers? That’s an awful thing to do to a friend.”
“I do not know why I should not have admirers,” Imogen said angrily.
Elspeth’s hilarity vanished. “Oh, Imogen, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that at all. I was laughing because I think it’s wonderful that you made such an impression on everyone last night. But you have to admit some of these are pretty funny. ‘I adore the limpid pools of your eyes, like the coffee I had for breakfast,’ how perfectly awful!”
Imogen scowled and sat down on a different seat. “I do not know whether they are good or not,” she said, “but I do not like these—I do not know the word. These men who do not know me thinking I am interested in them.”
That relieved Jeffrey’s mind considerably. “Well,” he said, trying to be fair, “they’re inviting you to do things with them because they want to know you better.”
“I do not know how to behave. And I do not know if I will like them. I do not even remember these men.”
“Well, Jeffrey and I know most of them. Do you want us to help you choose?”
Imogen looked at Elspeth, then turned to Jeffrey. “Will you tell me which ones I will like?” she asked him. “Because I think since you are a man, you will know the good ones.”
He looked at the handful of envelopes he held. None of them were good ones. None of them were men he’d tell her to go to dinner with, or a concert, or even walk across the street with. Me, he thought, I want you to like me, and knew he was lost.
“Well, most of these are people you should probably ignore,” he said, trying not to listen to the little voice screaming at him from inside his head, “but I’m sure some of them—let me see the ones you have, Elspeth.”
“I know which ones to throw away, Jeffrey. Oh, Michael Petty, he’s nice. Shame about the ears, but really very nice.”
“Michael Petty is a terrible choice. He’ll drag you to a museum and then lecture you about the artist and what she was thinking and eating when she planned whatever awful piece you’re looking at. Definitely not him.”
“What about Anton Crowder?”
“He’s almost engaged to Penelope Winterbourne. I don’t know what business he has sending invitations to other women.”
“Well…” Elspeth leafed through the rest of her stack. “I suppose you’re right. There really isn’t anyone good enough for you, Imogen.”
“Oh,” Imogen said. “I feel strange. I am—was not interested in these men, but now you say none of them are good enough for me and I am disappointed.”
“I’m sure there will be other invitations,” Jeffrey said, secretly giddy with glee that he’d successfully defended against the first wave of comers. “And since I wouldn’t want you to feel completely neglected, why don’t you—the two of you—come out to dine with me at noon?” He included Elspeth at the last minute. No sense declaring himself before he knew if Imogen even thought of him as more than a friend.
“We’re both busy,” Elspeth declared. “Sorry.”
He tried not to look too deflated. “Oh well, I suppose I’ll just have to eat alone. At my desk. By myself.”
Imogen took the envelopes from his hand. “We will think of you all alone at your desk and feel sorry for you,” she said with a mischievous smile, and his heart beat faster.
“That will make me feel so much better,” he said, and made his retreat to the dining room before his face could betray him. He piled sausages and eggs onto a plate, wolfed his food, and retreated to his office without meeting anyone except Arthur, who was detestably cheerful when he handed over the day’s schedule and said, “I left you some time for training, your Majesty, you were saying just the other day how you miss it.” Jeffrey managed not to growl at him before locking himself in his office, falling into his chair and covering his face with both hands.
So.
It had been obvious for days, hadn’t it? He just hadn’t seen what was in front of him.
And now that he knew how he felt about her, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. How her eyes sparkled when she was happy, the sound of her laugh, the way she’d looked in that gown, the way she looked in her own clothing…yes, he was lost, and he had no idea what to do about it.
He didn’t know how to court an ordinary woman, much less one like Imogen. Could he just go up to her and say, “Imogen, I’m interested in you, let’s spend some time together and see what happens”? He felt this was a bad idea, not least because it offered the possibility of a straightforward “No” answer. If he spoke Kirkellish, he could ask her tiermatha what to do, though they might just beat him to death for daring to think of Imogen that way. He could ask Elspeth—no, that would be a terrible idea, because she’d tell Imogen, and then they could both laugh at him.
He groaned. He’d always thought, without really considering the idea, that because he was handsome and a King he could pick any woman and she’d fall in love with him, with no work required on his part. He’d been a fool twice over.
Jeffrey: First Date
Jeffrey shrugged into the dark green frock coat with his valet’s help. Was it a little too dark? A little too green? The waistcoat of gold brocaded satin was probably too much. He should change. “I think the vest—” he began.
“Your Majesty has already discarded a dozen waistcoats,” Stephen said, “and if you wish to make your appointment, you will not discard a thirteenth.” He produced a lint brush and began swiping at the sleeves and shoulders of the coat.
“I suppose you’re right,” Jeffrey said, holding his arms a little extended from his body. “What about the trousers? They’re too informal.”
“They are appropriate for attending the theater, as I’m sure your Majesty knows, having set that fashion.”
“Right. They look fine, don’t they?”
“I am certain the young lady will appreciate the effort you’ve made.”
“It’s h
er first visit to the theater,” Jeffrey said. “I want her to enjoy herself.” It was only partly true. What he wanted was to impress her, encourage her to look at him favorably. If he could continue to find ways to discourage her other suitors…. He turned away from the mirror. Other suitors. That put him solidly among their number, didn’t it? Even if he was courting her secretly. Even if he couldn’t quite bring himself to say Imogen, I feel so much more than friendship for you, do you think…?
He straightened the front of his coat, unnecessarily, as Stephen’s carefully neutral face suggested. His valet only looked that way when he felt his royal master’s insecurities were in danger of ruining his royal appearance.
Two guards waited outside the east wing, not paying attention to their counterparts who were stationed there tonight. Jeffrey always wondered if they chatted a bit before he appeared. He’d never know if they did; they were all so formal around him, even the ones who’d known him since childhood and had formerly saluted him with cheery ease. He tried to relax his shoulders and walk more naturally between them. “You look as if you’re headed to your own execution,” Mother often teased him, but he didn’t really know what that looked like, just that he felt like a man-shaped wooden crate, trapping his fears and doubts well inside so no one would know how completely inadequate he felt himself to be. Father had—
He breathed in deeply and held the breath for a few seconds, then let it out in a long, silent stream, carrying that painful memory away. Kingship had come naturally to his father, who’d always carried himself with an easy confidence that could turn as quickly to commanding his counselors as it did to laughing with his children. Jeffrey’s earliest memory was of being tossed in the air by those powerful, gentle hands, of that baritone voice assuring Mother that no, he wasn’t going to drop the boy, then pretending to drop him and laughing at Mother’s horrified shriek. Then being clasped between them as Father embraced her and feeling secure and loved. He’d cherished that memory, made himself relive it every night for a month after Father’s death to keep other, more recent memories away. It almost never worked.
The carriage was waiting near the front steps of the palace. That couldn’t be good for the horses, having to stand and wait for him. He hoped they at least walked around the city while he was in the theater instead of standing in the traces for three hours. Imogen disliked seeing horses harnessed to carriages; she never said anything, but he’d seen the distaste in her eyes the first time she’d had to ride in one. Of course, she was accustomed to riding free across the Eidestal, an image that captivated his imagination. She was like no woman he’d ever known before, carefree and quick to laugh and determined to learn everything she could about this strange society she’d been dropped into by fate. That was something they had in common; neither of them had been prepared for their current role.
He made his shoulders relax again. He’d never really forgiven Sylvester, though he’d smiled and said all the right things when they met at their father’s funeral. But then, Sylvester had always put his needs before anyone else’s. That night he’d come to Jeffrey’s room to tell him he was leaving: Catherine is Baroness of Silverfield, her brothers are selfish pigs, Jeff, you’ve met them. She can’t leave the Barony to one of them. I love her too much to make her change for my sake—that would be selfish. As if adopting out of the North family, renouncing his claim as heir to the throne, was any less selfish.
And Jeffrey had had less than a year to get used to his new status before he was thrust into one he’d thought he would have decades to prepare for. Years of guidance by— He rotated his shoulders again. It was the coat, that’s what it was, the damned coat was too tight across the shoulders. He’d throw it away after tonight.
The carriage came to a stop, then rocked a little as one of the guards stepped down from her perch. Jeffrey made himself breathe calmly, slowly. This was an ordinary visit to the theater with a friend, and it would be enjoyable, and she’d agree to see another play with him, or have dinner, just the two of them, and gradually he could work himself up to declaring himself openly. He rubbed his palms on his trousers and hoped he hadn’t left a mark. He’d spent three years avoiding the women who threw themselves at the King of Tremontane and had completely forgotten how to court a woman on his own terms. Friends, he thought, we’re friends, and pretended that was all it was.
The guard opened the door, and Imogen climbed in. She was wearing that red dress she’d worn at Elspeth’s reception; she couldn’t know how much he liked it, could she? It was the perfect color for her skin and her amazing hair, thick and dark with ruddy highlights that he had fantasies about running his fingers through, pinned up loosely at the base of her neck tonight. She took a seat opposite him and smiled, and he tried to smile back, but it was that thin twist of the lips that was all he’d been able to manage for three years, and heaven alone knew what she made of it.
“You look lovely tonight,” he said. Beautiful, you fool, you should have said beautiful.
“Thank you,” Imogen said in that Kirkellish accent that made her words sound like water over stone. “You look lovely too.” She blushed. “It is to say, handsome.”
“The credit is entirely due my valet,” Jeffrey said. “Did I see another carriage leaving the embassy just now?”
“One of my tiermatha is courting with a soldier. A Tremontanan soldier. She is courting your way.”
“You know, it never occurred to me that might happen, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? Your people thrown together with our people, I mean.”
“It is still hard when they do not speak the same language, but Saevonna is learning.”
“I suppose love finds a way no matter what language you speak.” By heaven, I hope so.
“I do not know that it is love,” Imogen said, a little startled.
“Did she dress in Tremontanan clothes?”
“Yes.”
“Then if she changed her dress for him, learned his language, and went courting his way, I would say that’s something more than mere affection.”
A look of consternation crossed Imogen’s face, and Jeffrey replayed his words in his head, looking for something that might have disturbed her. Did she think it was wrong for the Kirkellan to give up their lives for a Tremontanan romance? Would she be unwilling to pursue a relationship with him? Maybe this was a huge mistake. Well, if it was, he hadn’t declared himself and neither of them had to be embarrassed. It could just be two friends at the theater. The idea made him feel hollow.
Then Imogen shrugged, and said, “I think we will have to see. It is only supper.”
“True.” Or maybe it wasn’t a mistake, and he still had hope. The hollow feeling spread, making him feel as if he were spinning between possibilities. Time enough for that when we know each other better. One step after another.
He helped her down from the carriage and saw, as he had before, the curious twist at the corners of her mouth that said she didn’t entirely understand the custom. How did she see them all, with their elaborate (by her standards) dress and manners and their houses and businesses that were so unlike the world of the nomadic Kirkellan? “That’s the name of the play,” he said, observing her interest in the glowing marquee. “Two Came to Kingsport. It’s one of my favorites.”
“I look forward to it,” Imogen said. “This building is beautiful.”
“My mother founded it, before she was Consort and Royal Librarian and couldn’t give it enough of her time. I’ve been coming here my whole life.”
The doorman pushed open the brass door and held it for them, bowing his head respectfully to his King. The first guard passed through, her eyes restlessly moving across the crowd while her partner hovered protectively behind them. Jeffrey tried not to let impatience overflow. Having a guard permanently attached to him was one of those things he’d had to adapt to, but he’d never considered what a damper it might be on a courtship. He’d already started going over legitimate reasons to escape them, assuming Imogen would someday be
interested in being alone with him.
He cast a quick, covert glance at her; she was staring about with undisguised interest at the softly upholstered walls and the Device sconces lighting the antechamber to the theater. “This way,” he said, tugging on her arm, and they ascended the shallow stairs to the passage curving around the wall of the theater and the door of box 3. One of the guards stepped inside, then after a minute returned and said, “Please go ahead, your Majesty.”
Jeffrey drew Imogen through the door and held one of the seats for her. “The guards do not come to the play?” she said as the door closed on the man and woman.
“No,” he said, sitting next to her, “they have to stand out there for hours and never see a single play. I feel a little sorry for them.”
“So do I,” Imogen said, and the lights went down, the curtain went up, and the play began.
It was surprisingly easy to relax and enjoy the play, though Jeffrey divided his attention between the stage and his beautiful companion. Imogen roared with unrestrained laughter, completely enthralled by the broad physical comedy, even if she didn’t understand the subtle wordplay. Her pleasure was almost as enjoyable to him as the show itself. When the curtain dropped, she said, “That cannot be all there is. Miriam still has not found her shoes.”
“This is intermission. You can use the facilities and stretch your legs if you like.” Jeffrey stood and stretched a little himself. “One of the guards will escort you.”
He sat back down in his chair when she was gone and realized he was smiling, a genuine, natural smile so surprising that he touched his lips in wonder. He hadn’t laughed so hard in…well, a very long time. Come to think on it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the theater. Had he really been so busy? His father had always had time for the theater, for his family. The smile disappeared. Just one more reminder that he wasn’t Anthony North.
Tales of the Crown Page 25