by Aya Ling
Music is drifting from one room. I peek inside and discover it’s a room designed like a theater. Rows and rows of chairs are lined in front of a stage with red velvet curtains. A glossy piano sits on the right-hand side. A few students are on stage, singing, while another man sits in one of the chairs, his hands waving as though he is guiding them. For a moment, it seems like I’m attending one of Paige’s talent shows. I blink, and I realize that I’m at Princess College of Athelia, not Oakleigh Elementary School.
“Princess Katriona!” One girl shouts, pointing in my direction. All girls promptly drop into curtsies, and there’s a chorus of, Your Highness.
To be honest, it’s kind of cute. I grin and wave at them. “Good morning, everyone. Are you rehearsing for a play?”
A younger girl, about nine or ten, runs toward me, her eyes shining. “We’re doing a musical, Aunt Kat.”
Aunt Kat? Since when did I get a niece? I blink, trying to remember who the girl can be. She reminds me of a porcelain doll in her white frock and with pink ribbons in her hair.
Click. She’s the daughter of Philip, the Duke of Northport, Edward’s older cousin. The cousin who, according to Edward, is more suitable to be king.
“Hello, Rosie.” I ruffle her hair. “Are you having fun?”
She smiles up at me and nods. “I’m an elf, Aunt Kat.”
The man in front gives me a low bow. “We are putting up a fairy story that the headmistress selected, Your Highness. The show will be open to the public in a few weeks. The headmistress has very kindly entrusted me with supervising the children for the play.”
“Awesome,” I say, and at their slightly bemused expressions, I give them a thumbs-up and say, “Splendid. I look forward to seeing your performance that day.”
After talking to the girls for a while, the bell rings, telling me I need to continue on to the conference room.
When I pass one of the classrooms on the ground floor, a familiar voice stops me. “Good morning, dearies. We are going to try a new pattern today. If you would please take out your baskets . . .”
I can’t help peering through the back door. Luckily, it’s left wide open. There are about twenty girls in class, each of them with a basket on the desk. In the very front of the class is an old lady with silvery white hair. I squint. There’s something familiar about her face. I know that I have seen her before. But considering that most people I know are either around my age or around the king’s age, I wonder who the old lady might be. The only person that I know who is above sixty, I think, is Mr. Wellesley. So, who is this elderly lady?
I’ll remember soon enough. Although at least half of my memories have returned, there are still details that I cannot fully grasp. Hopefully, with a few more visits to familiar places, I will recover my memories completely. However, I’m still reluctant to think of what I should do after I remember everything. Can I really give up my life in the U.S. and my network of family and friends and live in this country that upholds so many ideas contrary to my beliefs? Can I give up everything I love for Edward?
Before I reach the headmistress’s office, which is just around the corner, a voice, shrill and angry, can be heard quite clearly in the hallway.
“I will not have my little girl participating in that vulgar show!”
“Lady Willoughby, if you could just let us explain—”
“I brought my daughter because I believed she would receive an education fit for a princess. And what did she end up doing? Jumping around like a monkey and displaying her bare arms in public! Mingling with girls way below her station! Simply preposterous! Have you heard the way those low-class people talk? Did you know that they taught my girl to cartwheel—exposing her petticoats to the world? Unacceptable. My girl will not associate with . . . any creature like that.”
There is the sound of the door opening and boots clicking on the floor. I peer around the corner. It’s a tall, slender lady in a fancy brocaded dress. How she manages to stand the heat in so many layers is beyond me. Her right hand has a firm grip on a girl in a dainty white frock. As they march down the hall, a few students coming in the opposite direction scuttle out of the way like startled kittens.
“Third student this week.” A voice speaks from my other side.
Liam leans against the wall, arms crossed. He’s dressed in a smart gray waistcoat that reminds me of Sherlock Holmes.
“What are you doing here?”
He holds out a thick leather-bound book. An Introduction to Human Anatomy.
“You’re a teacher here?”
He bows. “Since the Duke of Somerset left, there was a vacancy, so I went to Edward to ask him for a recommendation.”
I flush. That explains why he suddenly showed up that day, when he found me sprawled on top of Edward in the library. He must be the replacement that Elle eventually found. I cough and look for another topic.
“Did you say something about that girl being the third one this week?”
He shrugs. “It was bound to happen anyway. Lady Willoughby had issues with my teaching biology and science. Girls usually aren’t expected to take those subjects.”
Oh, yeah. I remember having a discussion on the school board, even before Princess College was established. I had insisted on letting the girls receive the same education as the boys in Athelia.
“However.” Liam shifts his weight so he’s no longer leaning against the wall. “The Honorable Lady Willoughby did not complain when Henry had the job.”
Well, I’d also prefer Henry over Liam, though of course I keep silent.
“Do you believe a noble lady enrolled her precious daughter in hope of getting a different education? It’s because she’s hoping her daughter might catch the fancy of Duke Henry—an eligible young peer who doesn’t gamble or fool around with women. There aren’t many of them left, especially after you snared the prince.”
“But her daughter…” I try to recall how old Lady Willoughby’s daughter looked like—thirteen, or fourteen? “Surely she is too young for Henry?”
“An early attraction never hurts, and there’s the chance they could be engaged before the daughter is of age.” Liam’s mouth forms a cynical smirk. “The Willoughbys have been a bit hard up since Lord Willoughby lost his investments in a jewel mine. Were I Lady Willoughby, I’d likely do the same.”
A bell rings. I pull out my pocket watch—the school board meeting is in a few minutes.
“Well then, I’d better head to my class,” Liam drawls. “Don’t look shocked, Your Highness. I’m not against improving the minds of women, but trust me, in the end, you won’t be making any difference. Not even for those working-class girls.”
I stare at him. “What makes you so sure?”
“Do you know the factory girls still have to work eight hours a day? They have to get up at five, work till two, and come here for three hours of instruction if they aren’t falling asleep. Most of them are unable to absorb what we teach. Sooner or later, I’ll wager they’ll be dropping out as well.”
22
Holding the parasol over my head, I make my way through the gardens. Thanks to my recovering memory, I have an idea of where I’m going. Both Edward and I agree that I should try to find it by myself. Right now, I try to look like I’m enjoying a meandering, leisurely walk. Sometimes, I pretend to pause and sniff at some flowers. But in reality, I’m keeping a look out for the direction that leads to Edward’s private garden.
Sweat is pouring down my back when I approach a door covered in ivy. My heart pounds. I KNOW this is it. Fingers trembling, I withdraw the big golden key for my pocket and insert it in the keyhole.
Click.
Slowly, as though in a dream, I enter the garden—the place where I spent the most time with Edward. And then, a tsunami of memories hits me like a ton of bricks. My breath catches in my throat. It feels like I’m in a film, while scenes from the past swirl and converge like a huge montage. I see myself lying on the soft expanse of grass near the flowerbeds with Edward
, side-by-side, arguing over insignificant matters like the shape of the clouds in the sky. I see myself sitting in the swing beneath an apple tree while Edward pushes me higher and jokes that I’m getting heavier. I flush when I find the carved stone bench, where Edward used to pull me onto his lap and we’d engage in a passionate make-out session. Nor can I miss the fountain, bright and glistening, sending sprays of clear water into the sky.
Edward appears. He looks tired, but his face lights up when he sees me.
“Amelie dressed you well.” His gaze slides over my body in appreciation. This gown fits me snugly in all the right places, flattering my curves. While it is less revealing compared to my usual summer wear in Portland, I feel sexy all the same. I have grown more womanly compared to my teens—considering how Edward could discern the facial difference between me and my teenage self, I’m positive that he has noticed the changes to my body as well.
“Though I wish this image of you were for my eyes alone.”
I’ve got to react better than a speechless blush.
“I can go back and change.” I smile. “It won’t take long if I can put on a coat.”
He closes his hand around my wrist, effectively preventing my escape. “No need.” His other hand drifts to my back and stays there, as immovable as a rock. I can’t move unless I fall forward, which will bring my body into direct contact with his chest. “Let us start with a basic waltz. Put your left hand on my shoulder and give me your right hand.”
Since there is no music, Edward keeps count in his deep baritone voice. To get used to the rhythm, we go through a three-step pattern—step right, bring the left foot next to the right foot, then step in place with the right foot. It should be simple, even for somebody who is not adept at body coordination, but with Edward gazing at me intently, it’s so hard to concentrate.
“Relax, darling.” Edward sounds amused. “Rest your hand on my forearm instead of grasping the material of my shirt. Unless you want to rip my shirt off? I assure you that I have not the slightest objection to that.”
Shaking my head, I try very hard to banish the image of a half-naked Edward from my mind.
“Also, do not worry if your steps are too small. It is the gentleman’s duty to match your step and stride.”
“Okay . . . I mean, sure.” Whenever I’m nervous, modern phrases will slip out. Thank God that we are alone.
Or not. Being alone means that he could take liberties that aren’t allowed in public.
Moments later, I feel his hand on my back exerting more pressure, bringing me closer to his body. I’m not sure whether he’s conscious of it or not, but my forehead is only scant inches from his collarbone. His clean, masculine scent surrounds me, his chest rising and falling gently. Not that I mind the proximity, honestly, but with my feelings still conflicted and nebulous, I don’t want to encourage him until I’m absolutely certain I want to stay.
“I went to the school board meeting the other day,” I say, trying to dispel the sexual tension that had inevitably built up. “I met Liam there.”
“Liam? How is he getting along?”
“I don’t think he enjoys teaching there.” I can still remember him with his arms crossed and a languid expression that clearly showed he had no genuine interest in the school. “Why did you agree to write a recommendation for him?”
Edward pauses in his step. “I do not know if your memory includes this, but when you founded the school, you had a difficult time looking for teachers.”
“Enlighten me.” My tone is such a perfect imitation of his princely one that both of us smile.
“Few female teachers are able to teach subjects other than Languages and Etiquette, and male teachers usually find it effeminate to be teaching girls as young as five. For some, it is the equivalent of being a nanny.”
Henry taught for Princess College a while ago, before he became too busy. Was it from a genuine desire to help, or was it under Elle’s influence? “Then why did Liam apply?”
“He plans to settle down in the capital when he graduates, and housing can be expensive in respectable areas. The school is not his first choice, but the pay is good and he is undeniably qualified.”
The waltz comes to an end. He bows, and I curtsy, panting a little as I sink and bend my knees. The dance is by no means strenuous exercise, but combined with conversation, I need to draw breath more frequently.
“Would you like to rest for a while? Or shall we start another dance?”
I wipe a trickle of sweat from my forehead. “Suppose you demonstrate the moves and I rest while I watch you?”
He complies and shows me the basic moves of a quadrille. Another memory surfaces in my mind—when I was still living with the Bradshaws, the dancing master had frequently complained to Lady Bradshaw how clumsy I was at the quadrille, and my ‘mother’ told me that tripping over my feet was no way to get a husband.
I wonder what Lady Bradshaw thought when I married Edward.
When he finishes demonstrating the dance, Edward holds out his hand. “Will you honor me with your hand for a quadrille, my lady?”
I place my hand into his and warmth flows through us.
“There is more that I learned at the school.” In terse words, I tell him about Lady Willoughby.
He frowns. “I have heard something about that from my mother. It seems that those noble families had expected that their daughters would be taught to gain advantage in the marriage market, but finding that the lessons are similar to what is taught at a boys’ boarding school, they chose to withdraw. Besides, I suspect that Henry’s departure has something to do with it.”
Liam’s words echo in my mind. They’re just here for Henry.
“Maybe it will help if you teach a class at the girls’ school,” I say lightly. “That will definitely bring those girls back.”
I’m joking, of course, but he seems to take it seriously. “I’ll teach as many classes as you want.” Edward tightens his grip on my hand and waist. “If you promise to stay.”
I step back, conveniently forgetting that it doesn’t match his step, and an alarmed look appears in his eyes.
“Kat, behind you—”
My bum meets something cold, hard and damp. The next second, a spray of water splashes over my head, drenching my hair completely. I’ve stepped into the fountain. Water trickles down my forehead, running down my cheeks and sliding along my neck, soaking the lovely gown that Amelie selected.
Edward fumbles for a handkerchief. “Did you bruise yourself?”
“I’m bruised, all right. Sore all over.”
“Let me fetch our family physician.”
“Wait.” I grab his arm. “I was referring to my pride.”
We look at each other while water continues to drip down my face. Then, I can’t help it—I laugh.
“It’s so unfair. I can never maintain my dignity before you.” I rub my face and neck with his handkerchief. “Lucky for me, the sun is out today. Still, I think I’d better go back and change . . .”
I trail off, as Edward is no longer listening to me. He’s staring at me like he wants to gobble me up. I dart a glance at myself. The water has not only soaked through my hair, but it has run down my front, dampening the white material of my gown (what was Amelie thinking? It is so much easier to get dirty in the garden) and revealing my corset. From a straight, red blooded male’s perspective, I suppose my look is alluring. And considering what Edward feels for me and that we’ve been practicing dancing with his arms around me . . .
“Well.” I give a nervous laugh. “Maybe we should practice dancing after dinner instead. Your garden is too compact.”
“No.” His voice is deep, husky. “It is enough trouble trying to keep my hands off you in the evening.”
Slowly, he approaches me. My heart pounds. Surely, he isn’t going to kiss me—I’m like a bedraggled rat that was caught in the rain. Well, not that soaked, but still . . .
Edward brushes my damp hair from my face and leans in.
23
Someone knocks on the door. Pounding, more like it.
Both of us freeze. Edward halts a few inches from my lips, his expression soon turning from shock to annoyance. I glance at him for a second, my heart still beating fast, and move away from him. Part of me is disappointed, yet another part of me is relieved. I have a feeling that once his passion is ignited, it’s going to be really hard to stop him.
The pounding starts again, more urgently this time. Edward strides to the door, muttering something like “wring Bertram’s neck.”
But it’s Amelie who’s standing outside, her cheeks flushed and her shoulders heaving. It’s so rare that she runs.
“Apologies for the interruption, Your Highness. But Lady Elle sent a message. Miss Poppy went into labor this morning and gave birth. She’s asking if you’d like to go down to Miss Poppy’s house and see the newborns.”
“Newborns? As in plural form?”
“She gave birth to twins.”
“That’s awesome.” I brush past Edward. “Of course I’ll go! Please ask Bertram to prepare the carriage.”
“Not before you change out of your dress and dry your hair,” Edward says firmly. “You’ll catch a cold if you run around like this.”
“Hey, I’m not a little girl anymore.” I wag a finger at him. “Trust me, I can take care of myself.”
His response is to pick up his coat and drape it around me. I look up at him, and am touched by the concern in his eyes. “Kat, let’s go.”
Since I’m only visiting a friend, I have more liberty in choosing what to wear. Amelie and Mabel help me into a light cotton dress of soft, pastel colors, though there’s still no way around the corset, and I wish they could invent bras in Athelia.
“There.” Mabel twists my hair into a low bun and places a string of real forget-me-nots around the bun. “Isn’t it convenient that we have loads of flowers in the room?”