The Cracked Slipper

by Stephanie Alexander

  Eleanor’s own father, Cyril Brice, chose to treat his odd little girl with absent affection. He died before his hopes of turning her into a proper lady could come to fruition under the tutelage of his second wife, the self-declared authority on all things feminine. Only Rosemary looked at Eleanor and saw goodness and smarts over a runaway mouth and knobby knees and highly inappropriate eye color.

  After Imogene dismissed Rosemary from Eleanor’s life, she kept the sole company of her stepfamily for eight years. Before attending the Second Sunday Ball she’d not had a conversation with anyone of the masculine persuasion, other than Chou Chou, who being a bird did not exactly count. No one saw her.

  That is, until Gregory Desmarais met her eyes across a crowded dance floor.

  Two hours later she waited for him in a new gown, this one gold brocade, her hair heavy and damp against her bare shoulders. Chou flitted from the mantel to her head to the bed posters. Her mother’s music box plinked out its mournful tune from Matilda’s dressing table. The delicate sound was too loud in the bedroom, like a bugle call in a library. Eleanor lay a handkerchief over the cracked slipper and Leticia’s hair comb and shut the lid. The music box settled into miffed silence.

  “He’s coming,” she said as she paced the room, “I’m sure we shall dine together tonight.”

  Chou’s head waved like a clock pendulum. He opened his beak, no doubt to agree that Gregory would most certainly, without a doubt, arrive at any second, when the maid announced the long anticipated visitor.

  Eleanor straightened her skirts. “I told you,” she whispered.

  Chou shook his tailfeathers in what could only be described as a display of birdie lewdness. “I’ll leave you, my dear.”

  Eleanor giggled as he disappeared out the open window. The door opened and Gregory strode into the room. Her eyes darted over his thick auburn hair and strong chin. His features were not delicate, but that did not detract from the robust energy evident in his broad shoulders and powerful frame. He pounded across his late sister’s fringed rugs and lifted Eleanor off her feet. “Sweetheart!”

  She thought her heart would burst at that endearment. He set her down, and kissed her hands. She didn’t have to look far to meet his eyes, as he was not much taller than her. “Gregory,” she said, because in that moment she could think of nothing else.

  He led her to the couch. “How do you find your chamber? Are you comfortable?”

  She nodded. “Yes, very.”

  He touched her hair, and then turned her face toward his. “You certainly look well.”

  Between the gold gown and the heat in her face she surely resembled an exuberantly stoked fire. She studied the green piping on the sleeves of his purple tunic. I danced with him all night. Same man, different fancy room. She thought of their easy, wine-induced flirtation at the ball. She decided to reclaim it, albeit a less inebriated version.

  “Am I making you nervous?” he asked.

  “I must say this is the first time I’ve ever sat on a couch with a prince.”

  “Well, you’re making quite a go of it.”

  “Am I? In all honestly, I’ve haven’t sat on a couch with anyone in years. I’m moving up the ranks quite quickly.”

  Gregory raised his eyebrows. “Some would call it improper, to go from dancing to sitting in such a short acquaintance.”

  “I have to make up for lost time.” She laughed, and he joined her.

  “What can I bring you?” he said. “Sewing needles? Stationery?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I want you to be happy. What shall you do in this pretty room?”

  “When I’m at leisure I read. I enjoy studying and writing essays.” She pointed at the bookshelves. “It seems your sister shared my interest.”

  “Matilda?” He laughed again. “I’m sure every one of those is a book of dress patterns, or love ballads. She was an expert at embroidery, singing, and correspondence, like every other lady I know.”

  “I’m afraid I excel at none of those. Although I have recently discovered a love of dancing.” All that time Imogene spent teaching Sylvia to be coy, and yet honesty works just as well.

  Gregory edged closer. “What do you read? Poetry?”

  “I do love poetry, but I also find history and the old literature fascinating, and the study of the earth.”

  He raised his eyebrows again. This time they nearly melted into his red hair.

  Eleanor’s ricocheting confidence took another swan dive. She changed the subject. “A ball does not make for easy conversation. Tell me, how does a prince spend his time?”

  He seemed to forget about her odd scholarly bent as he talked about himself. He became quite animated as he discussed his love of hunting and fishing, of long rides and tournaments. He told her he spent as much time as he could in the Paladine Stables with the unicorns. The great beasts enthralled him, and he involved himself in all aspects of their care and the herd’s complex breeding program.

  Eleanor listened carefully and nodded when she thought he expected it. Perhaps he realized he was going on at length. He brought her back into the conversation by asking if she enjoyed riding. “As a child I enjoyed it very much, but since my father’s death the opportunities have been few and far between. My father had a saddle horse, but he was sold many years ago. He was a lovely animal.”

  “Bloodstock?”

  His interest encouraged her. She nodded. “He was a black gelding. Called High Noon. My father wanted to call him Midnight, but my mother said all black horses were called Midnight and this one needed something more original. So High Noon he became.”

  Gregory chuckled.

  “He was fast, and so clever. Almost like a bird. He came up lame and threw my father. It was an accident, but Papa’s neck broke in the fall. I was ten years old, and the constable brought them home—” Eleanor’s throat constricted at the memory of her strong, tall Papa draped across High Noon’s back like a sack of grain. “My stepmother sold him to one of my father’s friends. He called out to me, when they took him away…but I couldn’t…I didn’t…that’s all I have left of him.” She pointed at the tattered red blanket on the edge of Matilda’s elegant bed.

  “It must have been quite a loss.” He kissed her nose.

  “Well…it is fortunate that we can understand each other’s pain. My father, and—” She spit out the words. “—my mother. You mother gone, just four years ago…and then your sister last spring.”

  “This is a time for joyful thoughts, sweetheart.” He raked both hands through his hair, and then pulled her to her feet. “Anne Iris and Eliza will join you for dinner. You’ll have a fine meal in your new chamber.”

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  He grinned. “Always. One of many things you’ll learn about me.”

  At that moment the chambermaid announced Anne Iris and Eliza. Gregory blew kisses and took his leave, and Eleanor realized he’d never told her where or when he’d take his own supper.

  Anne Iris flounced over to the couch. “Have you any wine, Eleanor, dearest? I’m parched.”

  “I don’t know, honestly.”

  Eliza sat just as primly as Anne Iris had flopped. “HighGod, Anne Iris. How would the poor girl know the whereabouts of the liquor cabinet? I’m sure she’s yet to find the tooth scrub.”

  Anne Iris crossed her arms across her ample bosom. “Priorities, ladies. Number one, chamber pot. Number two, spirits.”

  “Number three,” said Eliza. “A handkerchief to cover your mouth.”

  Eleanor snorted into her hand, Gregory’s abrupt disappearance momentarily forgotten.

  “So,” said Anne Iris. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

  “What’s tomorrow?” asked Eleanor.

  “Let’s see,” said Eliza. “You’re to attend chapel, and then two lunches.”

  “How can I attend two lunches?”

  “Don’t eat at the first. Just stir your soup. And then a game of lawn bolls with the Svelyan and Kellish am
bassadors.”

  “Wear something red, if you have it,” said Anne Iris. “They like red.”

  Is there anything red in that wardrobe?

  “…an embroidery circle, and then afternoon tea. Then dinner in the Grand Ballroom.”

  “I’m not known for my embroidery.”

  Eliza patted Eleanor’s knee. “Neither is Anne Iris, darling. She only attends so she can chat up the sisters of eligible men.”

  CHAPTER 3

  An Odd Start

  At this time of year there were at least a hundred people living at Eclatant Palace, not including the legions of servants, soldiers, chefs, maids and gardeners. Some were resident courtiers—advisers, magicians, ambassadors, or close friends of the royal family. A constant rotation of young, unmarried aristocrats sampled the excitement of court and perused potential marriage partners. While most of the more settled gentry spent the majority of their time at their townhouses or country estates, they too would descend on the palace to attend an event, ask a favor of the king, or settle a dispute. Eclatant had to be prepared at all times to feed, house and entertain anyone of worth who made an appearance. The court was the heart of the kingdom, a showpiece of the power and sophistication of the Desmarais family, and the envy of the surrounding countries. King Casper Desmarais had spent years, and piles of gold and Fire-iron, perfecting an image of graceful prosperity.

  Anne Iris and Eliza took it upon themselves to teach Eleanor the ins and outs of palace life, for they had both lived at Eclatant for several years. They casually explained protocols without making Eleanor feel too much like a country cousin. Chou Chou, of course, adapted to their new home within hours. He settled himself on his new Fire-iron perch and promptly issued commands to the servants.

  When Eleanor opened her eyes each morning she stared in wonder at the delicate blue silk curtains floating between the four carved posters of her bed. One day blurred into the next, a parade of dinners and picnics filled with countless introductions to a stream of ladies and gentlemen of various ranks, families and towns. It did not take long for Eleanor to notice the welcoming sentiments behind their toothy smiles never touched their eyes, which tended to crawl over her person like a thousand bees collecting pollen. Anne Iris and Eliza whispered names over her shoulder, reminding her how one was related to the other. Without them she would have despaired of being able to place anyone.

  About a week after depositing Eleanor and Chou Chou in his sister’s former rooms, Gregory decided to it was high time Eclatant hosted a jousting tournament.

  “Has it been some time since the last one?” Eleanor asked Anne Iris.

  Anne Iris nodded. “Ten days. Gregory doesn’t fancy getting out of practice.”

  So Eleanor joined the crowd of ladies lining the jousting pitch on a cloudless, breezy Friday morning. With every jolt of wind her hair floated around her face like blond spider webs. It stuck in her eyes and she subtly spit out strands that crept into her mouth. Gregory always complimented her hair, and she still enjoyed the relaxed weight of it against her shoulders, but she made a mental note to check the weather before completing her toilette in the future.

  Eclatant Palace loomed behind the pitch, an observant stone steward. King Casper, an older, heavier version of Gregory, sat on a Fire-iron throne twenty paces to Eleanor’s right. She glanced at the king, but he seemed formed from the unyielding rock of his palace and his chair. He watched the pitch with his arms crossed over his thick chest and sporadically licked his red mustache.

  Eleanor returned her attention to the tournament. The LowWinter sun had some heat left in it, but she shivered anyway. The men rubbed linseed oil on their armor, and the smell overrode the last gasps of a few fading rosebushes. Thick grass tickled Eleanor’s ankles under her petticoats. She slipped one stocking foot from her shoe and rubbed her toes in the green carpet.

  “Put your shoe on,” whispered a voice in her ear.

  She turned to face a grinning Brian Smithwick, Anne Iris’s debonair brother. His wore a tunic of olive that complimented the green in his hazel eyes. She smiled back at him. He’d asked her for her first dance at Second Sunday, so he was for all intents her oldest friend at Eclatant.

  “I shall do nothing of the sort, sir,” she said. “Shoes are indeed overrated.”

  “Even glass slippers?” he asked. He brushed his dark blond hair out of his eyes.

  Someone cleared his throat over Brian’s shoulder. Eleanor said hello to Raoul Delano, another of Gregory’s closest mates. She detected a blush through Raoul’s swarthy complexion, and he stuttered out something like a polite response. Unsurprising, as Raoul had done little more than stare at Eleanor with his dark spaniel’s eyes during her every interaction with him.

  “You’re due to mount up, Smithy,” he said to Brian.

  Brian bowed with a flourish, which incited Eleanor to curtsy and Anne Iris to roll her eyes. The court callers announced Gregory, and the chattering crowd fell silent. Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat as Gregory rode onto the pitch. He sat astride a blindingly white unicorn stallion, the largest Eleanor has seen in her limited experience. He wore his fighting armor, solid Fire-iron from neck to toe. Sunlight struck the iron and reflected the colorful costumes of the observing courtiers. He resembled a human rainbow.

  The unicorn tossed his head and jigged sideways. Eleanor could not have imagined a more beautiful creature, or a more beautiful man on his back. The sharp outline of his jaw against the armor’s equally straight edge. The easy way he sat in the saddle with the rein in one hand and his wooden lance balanced effortlessly on his hip. When his unicorn stopped before her she curtsied.

  “My lady,” he said.

  Anne Iris nudged her, and she pulled a piece of purple lace from the pocket of her gown. As she tied it on the end of his lance she vacillated between euphoria and mortification, for she could feel a hundred eyes upon her and sensed nearly as many voices dissecting her. Gregory turned the unicorn and trotted toward his opponent. Eleanor swiped a glass of wine from a passing servant’s tray and took a long gulp.

  Eliza raised her eyebrows. “Take care. You’re not accustomed.”

  That fact became painfully obvious as the joust continued. Throughout the match Eleanor cheered loudly for Gregory. She denounced his opponent’s lance-wielding prowess, although as she’d never before witnessed a match she could hardly be considered an expert. She heckled the steward. When the other man finally tumbled from his mount Eleanor whooped and ran onto the pitch.

  Gregory didn’t seem to mind the lack of propriety. He leapt to the ground and met her halfway. A bead of sweat dripped from his auburn hair onto her nose when he kissed her full on the mouth. She heard the gasps of the watching ladies, but by then she’d finished a second glass of wine.

  “Eleanor,” Eliza whispered as she rejoined the twittering women on the sidelines. “Maybe you shouldn’t—”

  “Have I broken a law?” Eleanor glared over her shoulder at a wall of swishing fans and wagging eyebrows. She raised her voice. “Some decree banning women from the jousting pitch?”

  Gregory wrapped his arms around her waist. His armor was cold against her back. “If you have I shall declare the law null and void.”

  Anne Iris laughed, but Eliza bit her lip. Eleanor glanced at the Fire-iron throne. King Casper had taken his leave. Gregory kissed her hand and returned to his mount, and within half an hour Eleanor rejoined Chou Chou in her chamber to await the next event.

  The next morning, of course, she woke with a headache and clammy stomach. The headache was the result of the wine. The tight feeling in her belly was the result of remorse. Her dreams had barely faded before she was reviewing every hour of the previous day in her mind, trying to identify the conversations in which she had said the right and wrong thing.

  Maybe Eliza was right. Maybe she shouldn’t.

  Gregory did not call for Eleanor the next day, but the king’s chief magician did. He asked her to wait for him after morning chapel to d
iscuss plans for the wedding. As the worshipers dispersed Eleanor tried to pray, but she could not remember the meditations of her childhood. She gave up and watched the Godsmen tidying up lost handkerchiefs and forgotten prayer books. Even the slap of their soft-soled sandals echoed in the chapel’s sharp angles.

  Although it was the house of worship for the most important people in the land, Humility Chapel lived up to its name. It was a rectangular brick building filled with rows of backless wooden benches sitting on dark green limestone. A simple stone altar, covered in fresh flowers, stood at the far end of the main chamber. There were no paintings or statues, no idols or adornments of any kind. The windows, for the most part, were small and simple. One large window set into the softly arching ceiling saved it from being dreary by raining sunlight on the bright altar blooms. Humility Chapel was not so different from hundreds of other chapels spread throughout Cartheigh, albeit a bit larger.

  The people of Cartheigh and the surrounding kingdoms held a deep belief in the HighGod, but there was little dogma in their religion. Most people stopped by their local chapel a few times a week to pray and tithe, but their churches were loosely connected and the clergy held no real power. The chapels were a vital part of the life of the kingdom, but the personal nature of it all kept the Godsmen from great influence and took away the need for grandiose worship houses. Ezra Oliver stood beside the altar with a thick ledger in one hand. She thought of First Maliana Covey, the second largest building in Maliana, and therefore in all of Cartheigh. In this day and age, the magicians held sway over both power and elaborate buildings.