A Pearl Among Princes

by Coleen Paratore

  Tuesday’s child is full of grace,

  The rhyme rings in my head as I walk. I was born on Tuesday.

  Wednesday’s child is full of woe,

  Thursday’s child has far to go,

  Friday’s child is loving and giving,

  Saturday’s child has to work for a living,

  But a child that’s born on the Sabbath day,

  Is fair and wise and good and gay.

  What day of the week was Mackree born on? Why don’t I know that? Not that it matters. I must put him out of my head . . .

  When I reach the water, the sky is shrouded dark with clouds, and the foamy white caps on the waves let me know a storm is brewing. A breeze swirls toward me, throwing stinging sand up against my legs. I see Captain Jessie at the docks covering up his boat. I wave to him and he waves back. Such an odd goose he is. I don’t see him mixing with the royals or the men of Miramore either.

  The beach is strewn with clumps of black-green seaweed. I stoop to pick up a small yellow heart-shaped rock. There is a tiny white pebble, it almost looks like a pearl, imbedded in the middle. I try to dislodge it with my fingernail, but as hard as I try, the pearl won’t budge.

  Overhead, a sleek black duck screeches by, and then a second one flaps up behind it. Side by side now, they fly off together. I stop and watch the pair until they are but small black dots disappearing into the veil of fog.

  The wind whips my hair out behind me. A powerful gust sweeps gritty sand up into my face. I wipe the stinging specks from my eyes and gathering my collar tighter around my neck, I set off for home, my heart-shaped sea-sign to ponder.

  As it is Sunday, I do not have to scoop coal or pick vegetables or toil in the kitchen under Nora’s command. The bells of the chapel pierce the quiet morning air and I nod and smile hello to friends and neighbors as they walk toward the carved wooden entrance door, the smell of incense and the sound of music intensifying in the village air each time the heavy door is opened. One of the Muffets, Clarissa Porter, passes by me with her family, raising her nose as if she is better, superior to me.

  When I reach home I am surprised to see Father leaving the cottage with Nurse Hartling, who is donned in a pretty blue dress and a straw hat with a flowered scarf. “Time the patient gets some exercise,” she says to me as they pass.

  Father winks at me and shrugs his shoulders. “Following Doctor’s orders,” he says. He extends his arm to Nurse Hartling and I swear she blushes as she accepts it.

  Well, I’ll be. I smile. Lady Jule has serious competition. She’d better bring more sweets tout de suite.

  Inside the cottage, I busy myself filling up the straw baskets. Each Sunday I bring them to villagers who might need cheering up. Mother started the Sabbath tradition and I continue it still.

  Lining each basket with a cloth napkin, I put in some of Nora’s baked treats, and a few pretty shells, fresh sprigs of flowers from the garden. Nothing fancy. “Your presence, not the presents,” is what Mother says matters.

  First to Sister Varley, my kindergarten teacher, ninety-something now and slow-moving from arthritis, but her mind is still sharp as a sword. I make us some tea and she sets up the checkers. “I’ve looked forward to your visit all week,” she says.

  Next to our neighbor Rowena, bed-bound with the flu. I tell her funny news about the PITs and about the whale Mackree and I saw spouting.

  “You’ve brightened my day, Gracepearl,” she says.

  I look up the path toward Mackree’s house. Nuff is coming down it. My heart clenches. When she reaches me she says she’s sorry but she must hurry home. Her mother is expecting her.

  When I have delivered the last basket, I head back home. Nurse Hartling has gone and Father is reading.

  “Oh good, daughter, come,” he says, motioning to me to sit beside him. “We had another visitor while you were gone.”

  “Another lady calling on my handsome father?” I say, teasing.

  “No, as a matter of fact. It was a suitor for you.”

  The first name in my mind is Mackree.

  “One of the princes, a most impressive young man.”

  I cannot hide my disappointment, though this is what I have wanted. “Who?”

  “He asked my blessing before he asks you for your hand in marriage.”

  “Which one, Father?” Pray let it be Peter.

  “You mean there could be more than one?” Father says, grinning.

  “Stop teasing me, Father.” I push his arm gently, so he knows that I am serious. “Name him.”

  Father laughs heartily. He clutches his fist to his chest, a flash of pain crossing his face. “I am not teasing you, Gracepearl,” he says, smiling. “Although you indeed have many virtues, daughter, patience is not among them. The prince asked that his identity be kept secret so that he may profess his intentions to you at the ball.”

  “Oh, Father, just a hint then?”

  Father laughs again. “Let me suffice to say, daughter, that I found this young man to be a most decent human being of the noblest sort who clearly has your best interests in mind, and after conversing with him at length, I said that if your heart’s desire matched his, then who am I to stand betwixt a couple and Cupid’s arrow. And with that, I gave him my blessing. The decision, of course, is yours, Gracepearl. Yours and yours alone.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Proposals

  Curlylocks, Curlylocks,

  Wilt thou be mine?

  Thou shalt not wash dishes

  Nor yet feed the swine,

  But sit on a cushion

  And sew a fine seam,

  And feed upon strawberries,

  Sugar and cream.

  In the days that follow, I am befuddled trying to figure out whether Sir Richard or Sir Peter asked for my hand in marriage. The old Gracepearl would have run in an instant to tell Nuff and Lu, but yet I feel called to keep this matter to myself for the moment. I am fairly certain Tattlebug has kept them informed of all my dates this summer, but they are so sweet they have not said a word. I fear hurting them, and I fear hurting myself. I need time to hear the contents of my own heart.

  I trip and send a pail full of coal nuggets tumbling down the hill. I walk all the way to the garden forgetting Nora’s list. I pick a peck of yellow peppers when Nora clearly specified green. “Where is your brain, girl,” the old wrinkled cook scolded. “I wrote it there, plain as day, see.” She pointed to the list.

  I look, yes, there it was, plain as day. “Greene.”

  Which prince spoke with Father? The memory of Sir Humpty leering at me in the garden at the start of summer slinks into my mind. I cringe. That egg prince stares at me every chance he gets. Last week Tattlebug said he tried to get information about me from her once he learned we worked together in the kitchen.

  “He’s really very nice,” Tattlebug said with a dreamy look in her eyes. Does Tattlebug fancy Sir Humpty? Eeew. Well, at least she is finally over Mackree, even if Nuff . . . I stop this thought, but where my mind goes is no more helpful. Sir Richard? Sir Peter?

  I see Mackree’s face. The pull is strong as a tidal wave, and yet it cannot be . . . Oh, please, Mother, give me some direction. I am so confused.

  At lunch in the shade of the trees, Lu and Nuff sense my conflicted and jittery mood. Have they heard tattle of a proposal awaiting me at the ball? But they do not pry, do not judge, and our silence is full of friendship.

  “Professor Robinson gave a lecture on grooming today,” Lu reports. “I was hoping he’d speak on the art of chamber pot archery, but he focused on ear wax and foot fungus.”

  “Eeew, I’ve lost my appetite,” I say.

  Nuff laughs and claps. “More, more.”

  Lu shares a bit about the techniques of nose-hair plucking.

  Nuff tells how the Muffets are sewing elaborately ornamented banners with the home crest of their favorite PIT for tomorrow’s tournament.

  I smile but find myself bored with the conversation. The tournament and then my b
irthday, soon after, the Summersleave Ball. Then September and the royal ships return. A prince is my only passage from here. Which one wants to marry me?

  When I get home Father is propped up in bed with a box of ribbon candy. “Someone came calling,” he says.

  “Lady Jule?” I say. “Nurse Hartling would not approve. Father, I fear I must chaperone you.”

  Father laughs a hearty belly laugh that ends in a cough. “No,” he says. “It was another prince, seeking my daughter’s hand.”

  What? Just when it seems I cannot be more dizzy, the world swirls crazier.

  Here, at last, must be Mother’s choice. A choice between two princes, two safe passages from the island to answer the call beyond. That notion seemed so light and whimsical back when the ships first landed. Now the thought weighs me down like an anchor.

  Two princes. Fine men indeed. But neither is the prince of my heart.

  CHAPTER 24

  The Tournament

  Shoe the horse, shoe the mare,

  But let the little colt go bare.

  The annual summer tournament is a much anticipated holiday on Miramore, and this year more than ever, I note. Work ceases mid-morning so that we can gather to watch. There is only one stand for spectators, and that, of course, is for the professors. Pillage observes the scene smugly, like a rooster proudly surveying his fighting flock. Lady Jule fidgets and chews honey drops with an anxious line set in her brow. I see Captain Jessie sitting by himself. I wonder what he’s been up to.

  Lu and Nuff and I lay a quilted blanket on the hill, a good place for viewing but not the best. The Muffets claimed the best spot, probably at dawn. Dressed in their matching pink shawls, hair all curled and ribboned, they sit on cushions under umbrellas, holding banners for their favorite princes.

  The majority of the banners, I note, are for Ashland and Elm, Clarissa and Sally hold flags for Maple, Janey for Hickory. None for Oak, I note with satisfaction.

  Just then Tattlebug, wearing a dress way too small for her and shoes so big she is tottering, comes looking for a spot to sit. She is carrying a ragged banner with a painted-on leaf of oak, the emblem of Sir Humpty Dumpty.

  “Even the egg prince has a fan,” Lu says.

  How brave of Tattlebug, I think.

  One of the Muffets, Sally Tailor, shouts out something to the stumbling girl, most likely a taunt, and the other Muffets laugh. And despite all Tattlebug has done to annoy me, I feel bad for her in this moment.

  Tattlebug pulls at the skirt of her dress as if to make it longer. She lowers her head and the banner. She raises her hand to her nose, no doubt for a sneeze, slips out of her shoe, and falters to a fall, to more gales of Muffet laughter, then ducks in with a group of children, slinking to a seat behind Leem and Brine.

  I am going to do something kind for Tattlebug. Next Sunday, a basket for sure.

  The Muffets gasp as Sir Richard appears, mounted on Mackree’s prize steed. Thank goodness Ransom wasn’t wasted on the likes of Humpty Dumpty.

  The Muffets toss flowers on the path as Sir Richard approaches. He smiles but doesn’t acknowledge them. When he passes by me and Nuff and Lu, he slows down to a cantor and graciously nods his head in a sweep that takes in all three of us.

  We curtsy.

  “Did you see that,” Lu gushes. “He smiled right at me.”

  I feel a pang of disloyalty. What if Lu hears of Sir Richard’s intentions toward me, before I have a chance to tell her? She would think me a poor friend, a traitor indeed. I vow to speak with Lu right after the last event.

  Sir Peter is next to process before the stands. The Muffets toss daisies before him. Sir Peter catches one, pats his heart and waves, sending squeals of delight up from the pink-shawled chorus. When the pirate prince reaches the three of us, he nods his head very gentleman-like, then kisses the daisy and sends it flying toward us.

  Nuff catches it. “He’s a devil, that one,” she says in a voice that is barely a whisper.

  “So you fancy him, Nuff,” I blurt out.

  There. Now at least I’ll know for sure.

  “What’s not to fancy?” she says.

  “But are you serious about him?” I ask.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says. She looks at me. “He is serious about another.”

  “What do you mean, Nuff?” I demand.

  “Sir Peter is your portal,” Nuff says. “Please, Grace, don’t make this so hard.”

  Her harsh voice protects her emotions from escaping. “Your dream is to leave. He has the ship you need. Return his advances and be done with it . . .”

  “But when I saw you at Mackree’s—”

  “Not now, Grace,” Nuff pleads.

  “Look girls, Sir Humpty,” Lu squeals, and we turn our attention back to the field. The egg prince is wearing a most audacious ermine-trimmed coat. I see Tattlebug waving her banner with a flourish, but Humpty doesn’t take note.

  Now Sir Marcus of Maple struts onto the field, then Sir Blake of Birch . . . until finally the last of the PITs process by.

  Today there will be six events in the tournament, beginning with Pillage’s race. At the end, the prince with the most points will have his named inscribed on the wall of honor in the banquet hall. The House of Ash and the House of Elm have the greatest number of winners. I counted the other day. The princes have been teasing Sir Humpty, as there has never been a victor from the House of Oak.

  “You wait and see,” he boasted at dinner the other night. “This will be the year of the Oak.”

  My heart skips a beat when I see Mackree, his long shaggy bangs covering his eyes like a drapery. He motions and calls orders to his brothers and the other stable hands, and they work to get the horses into their starting positions.

  I can feel the professors’ tension and the Muffets’ excitement in the air.

  The horn blows and: “They’re off!”

  The contestants will circle the field three times. Sir Peter takes the lead from the start, his black ponytail whipping out behind him. Sir Richard is close on his heels. Sir Marcus of the birthday suit is third. Humpty Dumpty’s horse is last. Flaming mad, he barks something at Mackree when he passes the first turn.

  Whips and rods are now allowed in the tournament, and Sir Humpty doesn’t seem to know any other way to win a race. Thank goodness it is not Ransom he lashes today.

  The horses gallop faster, several neck to neck as they start the second loop. And as exciting as the race is, the crowd cheering, the Muffets screeching, most eyes on Sir Richard as he now masterfully claims the field, I find myself looking only at Mackree. His eyes glued to his beloved Ransom racing a prince on a field of glory, willing his horse to win even, I imagine, as he detests the violence of the new rules for all his dear horses.

  And then Mackree’s hands are on his hair, sweeping it away in a most violent way and I see the look of horror on his face, a loud whinnying, groans and gasps all around me, and I swing to follow Mackree’s gaze.

  Sir Richard is on the ground. Mackree races to him. Sir Peter has pulled up on his own steed to turn around. The other riders have not noticed, they continue at a breakneck speed. Sir Humbert beats his heels mercilessly into his horse’s sweating flanks. He reaches into the preposterously big coat and pulls out a whipping rod and strikes his old gray horse. He strikes and strikes and strikes the horse again. Mackree is helping Sir Richard limp off the field. Professor Pillage motions Mackree away. Mackree turns, no doubt to see to Ransom, and in that instant he’s knocked down and trampled beneath the hind hooves of Sir Humbert’s whip-crazed horse.

  CHAPTER 25

  Princes Before Peasants

  Little Miss Muffet

  Sat on a tuffet,

  Eating some curds and whey.

  Along came a spider,

  And sat down beside her,

  And frightened Miss Muffet away.

  Although he is yards away, I am the first to reach Mackree.

  His eyes are closed, blood oozing from an awful gash
on his forehead.

  “Mackree.” I slide my hands gently beneath his head, lowering my cheek to his nose to feel if he is breathing.

  Thank goodness, he is.

  There are loud frantic calls for assistance as Professor Pillage and others tend to Sir Richard across the way. Lady Jule has fainted.

  “The doctor! A stretcher! A blanket!” Pillage shouts.

  People scurry to do his bidding. Doctor Jeffers is coming from the stands.

  Mackree’s younger brother Mick is standing there watching me. “You oughtn’t move him, Gracepearl, case his neck is broke.”

  “Get Nurse Hartling from the hospital now,” I shout. “Run!”

  I rest Mackree’s head on my lap. He doesn’t make a sound. I refuse to cry. My heart pounds as if it will burst. I pull the scarf from my neck and press it against the wound on his forehead, hoping to staunch the bleeding.

  “Mackree, my heart.” I speak loudly in his ear, strong and confident. “Help comes. Hold on.”

  I stroke his forehead. I kiss his closed eyelids. My blood freezes and boils, freezes and boils. I feel I will explode. In this moment, the power of truth overwhelms me. Here in my arms is the love of my life. My feelings for Mackree have grown as I have grown. We are no longer children. He was right. The days of sand castles and skipping stones are over. I don’t just love Mackree Byre, I am in love with him. Why aren’t people coming to help? I kiss his hair, his cheeks, his eyelashes. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  Nuff and Lu reach me now. I feel their hands lightly touching my shoulders, one on each side. “What can we do?” Nuff says.

  “I’ve sent for Nurse Hartling,” I say. “Pray.”

  Over there, the Muffets are swarming about the makeshift bed that’s been set up for Sir Richard. Doctor Jeffers is attending him and the professors are hovering near. The Muffets are whimpering into their handkerchiefs. Doesn’t anyone care about Mackree!

  Tattlebug kneels beside me. She holds out a tin cup. “Some water?” she says.

  “Thank you,” I say, grateful for the kindness. I bring the cup to Mackree’s lips and try to give him a sip, but the water dribbles down his chin.