A Pearl Among Princes

by Coleen Paratore

  “What dreams? Tell me.”

  “People,” I say. “Hundreds, thousands, old and young, never the same faces . . . they look beaten down, hungry, sad . . . they beckon to me, call me, come, come. Oh Father, what do they want?”

  Father’s eyes are deep brown lakes of love. He is silent for a very long time. “You.”

  “Me, Father? What for? What can I do?”

  “You can help them.”

  “But how, Father? How? I have no power. I have no money.”

  “Easy, darling,” Father says in a calming voice. “I promise on your birthday you will understand.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Dancing in the Woods

  Ride a cockhorse to Banbury Cross,

  To see a fine lady upon a white horse;

  Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,

  She shall have music wherever she goes.

  Now Father’s words perplex me as much as Mother’s, but he asked for rest as he felt tired and I obeyed his request. “Go to the dance and enjoy yourself,” he said.

  “You know of the dancing circle in the woods,” I said.

  “Know it?” Father laughed. “I believe your mother started it.”

  Lu, Nuff, and I at Nuff’s house to pretty ourselves. Lu’s father nearly forbade her to go out this evening, so angry was he at hearing about those royal boys bathing bare back. We have Tattlebug to thank for that. She heard Lu and me gigging about it when we met to share our noonday meal and then tattled the story to Lu’s brother Dunder when he came to deliver the goat cheese Nora had ordered. Dunder, doof that he is, told Lu’s father, embellishing the story a bit, saying that Lu and Nuff and I had joined the boys for a swim. Anyway . . . Nuff’s good mother went to Lu’s father to set the story straight, and finally he came to his senses. Good thing. Lu looks so very lovely tonight. Hopefully Sir Richard will be enchanted.

  The young people of Miramore have gathered to dance in the woods for as long as anyone can recall. Several yards into the thickest part of the forest there is suddenly a large open field where the land is flat and encircled by trees, Nature having obligingly created the perfect secluded dance floor. The first boys to arrive will light a fire in the rock pit in the center and those with pipes and fiddles and drums will claim spots on the bordering tree-stump seats to perform.

  I look forward to these evenings, because I will get to dance. Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, dance! I would dance all night long if I could. I would dance until every star fell aslumber, until the sun nudged the moon from the sky.

  But, of course, like my friends, I have a curfew.

  We take turns washing each other’s hair using the sweetly scented chamomile and coconut shampoo Nuff’s mother makes. Her soaps and oils, lotions, powders and lip-color sticks bring many a customer to her stall on Trading Day.

  We towel dry our hair by the fire. Nuff hums a tune we know we’ll hear tonight and soon Lu and I join in. So many a time such as this we’ve shared. I look from one friend’s face to another. How very much I will miss them.

  “Well,” Lu says, braiding a thin white ribbon through her shining red hair, “you know I hope Sir Richard will find his way to the forest tonight, but after seeing Sir Marcus of Maple the other day, I wouldn’t mind a dance with him.”

  “Trusting he found his clothes,” Nuff whispers, and we burst out laughing, then hush as Nuff’s mother’s comes with some blush powder for our cheeks and a dab each of her new ginger-almond perfume.

  “What are you girls laughing about now?” she says, shaking her head, smiling. “You’re always laughing, laughing, laughing.”

  “Better that than the opposite,” Nuff says.

  “That’s so,” her mother says. “Take laughter over tears any day.”

  Arms linked we head to the woods. I am wearing a pretty white dress and the emerald green shawl Father says matches my eyes, the oyster shell necklace from Mother about my neck.

  The toad frogs and crickets’ cacophony and the far-off strains of laughter are a prelude of the evening’s music to come. The path is hard to see in the dark. We step carefully over gnarled tree roots and the occasional snake and rabbit hole, at last arriving safely to the clearing. Torches have been lit and the fire pit flames soar high. A full moon basks us in a light so bright he rivals his sister, sun.

  We approach the gathering and greet our other friends from the island, steering clear of Tattlebug attempting to tag along behind us. All the Miramore boys our age are here, except Mackree. Where is Mackree?

  “Oooh, look,” Lu says. “The princes.”

  Sir Richard and Sir Peter, ever a pair, lead the pack. The Muffets nearly trip over each other rushing toward these two, most handsome of the PITs. Sir Richard wears a simple white shirt and black trousers. Sir Peter’s hair hangs long about his shoulders, the silver hoop glinting in the firelight. I am lucky to have earned their sincere affection.

  “Will you look at them,” Lu says.

  “Hmmm-hmm,” Nuff answers.

  The first strain of a fiddle breaks the night air.

  “Shall we dance?” I say.

  “Let’s walk over near the PITs,” Lu suggests.

  A second and third fiddle join the first and my feet begin to move. “You two go, I’ll catch up in a minute.”

  Never needing a partner when the music calls, I enter the circle, a smile lighting my face. The reel is fast and happy and I step fast and then faster with the rhythm, clapping my hands in the air, two-three. The tempo speeds up and I whirl and swirl free as a seagull in the wind. I see Sir Richard and Sir Peter walking toward me. My heart is pounding. I am giggling with joy, not because of the handsome princes, but because I am dancing. Dancing, dancing, dancing.

  Feet stamping the ground, in and around the tree-stump musicians I dance, head moving to the beat, body swaying to the sound, hands clapping in measure, I hitch my skirt up so as not to stumble, feet step-stepping, circling, circling, my face aglow in the bonfire flames.

  Dance to the fiddlers,

  Dance to the fiddlers,

  Dance to the fiddlers, whee!

  The old rhyme plays in my mind as I dance, swishing and swirling and stepping and twirling, head thrown back, laughing with delight. Drums and flutes and tin whistles have joined the fiddles now, but it is the fiddle that I have always loved best.

  “Cease, at once!” A voice slices the air. The music stops. I come to a dizzy halt.

  “Dancing wild, unescorted, like some jezebel.” It is Professor Pillage, the military arts instructor. He takes my arm and pulls me to the side. “You will cease this heathen display this instant. How shameful in the presence of our royal guests.”

  My heart is pounding from the dancing, and my face reddens with embarrassment and then rage. I hear the Muffets sound their pleasure over my predicament. “Finally got her comeuppance,” one says.

  “Unarm the lady,” Sir Peter says, coming forward in a most chivalrous manner.

  “This instant,” Sir Richard demands. “Are you all right, Lady Grace?” he says.

  Professor Pillage salutes Sir Richard and steps back looking bewildered but obedient.

  A fiddle takes up again and another joins in, this time in a slower beat. And then I see Mackree, leaning on a tree, arms folded, taking all of this in. Why didn’t he come to my defense? I stood up for him without thinking when Sir Humbert disrespected him. Not that I needed rescuing. I am perfectly capable of defending myself from fools such as Pillage, but look how Sir Richard and Sir Peter reacted. Shouldn’t Mackree, of all people, have been the first at my side? Even as I think this, though, I know I am being unfair. Mackree has set me free for another so that I may answer my call. Mackree has taken the harder, more noble route. Why can’t I let him be? Almost as if he hears my thoughts, Mackree turns his back on me.

  The music turns slower. “May I have this dance, pretty lady?” Sir Peter asks. Sir Richard backs away, ever chivalrous, but pats his heart as if to say, Me next?

/>   Mackree is still standing there. But then he is gone, and I find myself nodding to Sir Richard in spite of myself.

  “Lady Grace?” Sir Peter says.

  “Thank you.” I curtsy, smile, and take his outstretched hand.

  And so I dance a second time with the handsome pirate prince of Elmland. I feel someone staring at me. I look, assuming it is Tattlebug.

  No, it is Nuff. She smiles encouragingly at me, and I try my best to smile back.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Whale

  Jack and Jill went up the hill

  To fetch a pail of water;

  Jack fell down and broke his crown,

  And Jill came tumbling after.

  Next morning I walk to the beach with a vengeance, still smarting from Mackree’s slight. I mount the bluff and there he is. Sitting on a rock, staring out at the water. I walk quickly to him. He looks up, his beautiful thick brown hair a curtain over his eyes. He flicks his hair from his forehead to see me. “Mornin’, Pearl,” he says.

  “Mornin’, Pearl? Is that all you have to say to me? Mornin’ Pearl?”

  “I’m sorry I don’t talk like your fancy princes, etcetera ,” he says. “Which one are ya choosin’ anyway?” He throws a rock and then another. “I hear one’s courtin’ ya with pink roses and the other with red, out strollin’ the beach at night with one, dancing with the other . . .”

  Tattlebug, that troublemaker. I ought to give her something to sneeze about.

  Mackree stands up to walk away.

  “Mackree, wait,” I whisper, reaching out to touch his back.

  He swings around brusquely, takes me in his arms, and kisses me.

  Mackree is kissing me. Then I am kissing him. Oh, please heavens, make this moment never end.

  He pulls away from me and turns to leave. I’m so startled I nearly tumble off the rock. “Mackree, please . . .”

  A spout of water sprays straight up out of the sea and we both look.

  “A whale,” I say.

  “Yes,” Mackree says. He stays next to me.

  We watch as the sleek black tail of the sea-giant, splayed into perfectly curved equal halves, rises dramatically into the air, then sinks softly back into the azure sea, with nary a telltale ripple.

  I move closer to Mackree, breathing in the smell of the soap he uses to scrub his horses. “Stay with me,” I ask.

  I sit on the boulder and he sits beside me. We stare out at the waves in silence.

  There is something about a whale that demands your attention. Mackree and I sit soundlessly, no words necessary, allowing ourselves to forget our circumstance in this perfect moment. Our eyes search the water east and west, waiting hopefully as so many other human beings have done all through time, hoping one of these mesmerizing graceful giants will breach for us again.

  It doesn’t reappear. Most likely leagues away from Miramore now, treating who knows next to its ancient magical sea ballet.

  I steal a quick look at Mackree’s beautiful face. My heart swells. But, no. No, no, no, no, no. “I saw Nuff visiting with your mother,” I say. “Nuff is the greatest catch on the island, for sure. She’s smart and pretty and she loves Miramore as much as you do. If I can’t . . .” My voice cracks.

  “Stop,” Mackree says, his face a confusing jumble of emotion.

  He puts something in my palm and closes my hand over it like a shell.

  I open my hand. It’s a rock. Smooth and black. “Shaped like a whale,” I say with a little laugh.

  “Found it on the beach this morning, just before you came,” Mackree says, his eyes searching mine.

  “A sign,” I say.

  “Maybe,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, “or just a good skipping stone.”

  Before I can speak, he is gone.

  CHAPTER 21

  Field Trips

  Four and twenty tailors went to kill a snail,

  The best man among them durst not touch her tail.

  She put out her horns like a little Kyloe cow,

  Run, tailors, run, or she’ll kill you e’en now.

  Professor Millington soon announces she is taking the royals on her annual week-long field trip into the forest to help them get in touch with their “inner yins.” The princes groan in unison.

  From our listening post beneath the classroom window, Nuff, Lu, and I cover our mouths to silence the giggles.

  “Remember the year she had them weave flowers through their hair and skip through the meadow,” Lu whispers.

  “And don’t forget the daisies,” I say. Professor Millington always teaches the princes the “loves me, loves me not,” plucking game.

  “Each of us,” Professor Millington is saying “has a female and male, a yin and yang nature. Despite what you young men may have been told about bravery and bravado, I assure you that a young lady finds it particularly charming when a boy she likes casts aside aggressive, competitive tendencies to show his more sensitive and vulnerable side . . . to let down the iron shackles and lay bare the contents of his heart. And tears, my young men”—she sighs—“tears are very, very good. Tears are icing on the cake.”

  The PITs groan. “Trying to turn us into snivelers, are you?” Sir Humpty says.

  I picture the princes sitting around a campfire, roasting marshmallows, sharing deep secrets until they’re all bawling like babes in the nursery.

  “A floppy bunch of emotes,” Sir Marcus says.

  “What’s an emote?” Lu whispers

  “An emotional person?” Nuff suggests.

  “Like the three of us,” I say, sighing with a smile.

  When the PITs return from bonding with their “inner yins,” Professor Pillage is ready and waiting with a field trip plan of his own. He instructs the royal students to pack up for a week of “real man” sports—archery and trapping and hunting. He orders Mackree to prepare the horses. He calls for some hounds. Lady Jule is not pleased, but as with the race at the tournament, she knows she must follow the bidding of an emissary of the Order.

  I send a silent prayer to the forest animals: Run, quick, and hide.

  Killing animals for food may be Nature’s way. Killing animals for sport is wrong.

  August has brought a western breeze to Miramore, and a blistering heat as well. Father’s health is returning, but under Doctor’s orders he is to stay home and rest, no work until further notice. Healthy food and rest are the prescription.

  I can tell Father misses running the kitchen. Summer is his shining season. And I know that as he sips the clear vegetable soup Nurse Hartling brings to him and the fruit salads Lady Jule sends, he dreams of succulent roasts and pot pies and freshly baked bread, butter melting.

  I decide to take a field trip of my own.

  As much as I enjoy the company of Lu and Nuff, I am just as happy, maybe even happier, when I am alone.

  “Sometimes your best company is you,” Mother says inside, and I smile.

  I change into my swimming clothes, pack some food and a jug of water, and head toward the sea. It is a sunny, glorious day. Throwing my sandals and towel on the sand, I run and dive straight into the water, sweeping my arms like a butterfly, kicking my long strong legs out like a frog. I surface and fill my lungs to the full and dive again, deeper this time. I reach out to touch the yellow tang and then a blue striped starling. A giant sea turtle moves silently past me and I watch as it pecks delicately at the rough coral, sending bits of pink snow to coat the mermen’s shaving brushes sticking up from the ocean floor.

  It is an entire other world under here, every bit as beautiful as the one above. The grandfather turtle’s murky eye meets mine and I think of Professor Pillage and the hounds and the hunt. Be safe, my furry and featured friends. You know the forest better than he. Hide.

  Back on the beach, I dry off and lie back on my towel. I close my eyes. Soon I am dreaming.

  I am standing alone up high in a tower looking down. A multitude of faces are gazing up at me. I am speaking. What am I saying? The people
are listening. What am I saying? Suddenly the people are smiling, their hands clasped jubilantly in the air.

  I wake feeling excited. This is a new dream, one that breeds hope in my heart. Perhaps there can be joy without Mackree. I slip my skirt and blouse over my now dry bathing clothes and walk the beach hoping for words of wisdom from Mother, but she is surprisingly silent.

  I look for signs, but it seems each thing that calls to me, upon examination, is just one of the thin, flat stones Mackree once loved to skip. Out of habit, I pick them up. One, two, three. It seems all today’s signs are pointing one way. I gather more and more skipping stones. I find myself needing to see him desperately. But I will not break my silent promise to myself or to him, and so the weight of the foolish stones hangs heavy in my pockets, nearly as heavy as my heart.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Sabbath

  Baa, baa, black sheep

  Have you any wool?

  Yes, sir, yes, sir,

  Three bags full:

  One for my master,

  And one for my dame,

  And one for the little boy,

  Who lives down the lane.

  Baa, baa, black sheep,

  Have you any wool?

  Yes, sir, yes, sir,

  Three bags full.

  One for my master,

  I peel an orange and make a pot of tea. I open the sack of sweet pastries Nora Baker brought yesterday along with the fresh roasted turkey, conch chowder, and corn.

  “The sweets are fer you,” she said. “Don’t be feeding them to Cook. He’s gotta watch his diet.”

  That was nice of Nora. I bit into a fig muffin. “Mmmm . . . Delicious.”

  “Just day-old stuff I’d be tossin’ anyway,” the old woman had said, but I could tell it was more than that.

  I stuff two rolls in my pocket for the cats and head to the beach for my walk. No need to rush this morning. It is the Sabbath, the day of rest and renewal and gratitude.

  Monday’s child is fair of face,