“Eleanor,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
Her nostrils flared and she jumped out of bed. “Get out.”
“No, listen to me.” He followed her to the window. The two maids were frozen, trying to blend in with the furnishings.
“What are you playing at? Leave!” he yelled. He did not need to repeat himself.
“How could you?” Eleanor sputtered. “How could you, and then to speak of me like that…” She couldn’t even finish.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t even remember it, Dorian woke me just now and told me.” He grabbed both her forearms but she pulled away. “You must believe me. I barely remember anything past leaving the palace. I had so much to drink, and I think I smoked something…the boys were having a laugh…if I did those things I never meant them.”
She turned away and hid her face in her hands.
“Please,” he said. She opened her eyes and he was on his knees, gripping her nightgown. “You have to forgive me. I love you. I would never hurt you intentionally. I know I’ve been neglecting you. I can change. I promise.”
Why now? Why is he telling me this now?
She was supposed to marry him in less than eight hours. The whole kingdom waited. So she slapped him. “I have no choice but to forgive you.”
The surprise on his face would have been comical under other circumstances. He leapt to his feet. “I’ll make it right to you, I swear it. I want to show you something.”
He dragged her toward the door but she dug in her heels. Wandering in her nightclothes had gotten her nowhere last night.
“Come, who cares? Look at me!” he said.
She couldn’t argue with him there. He held her hand, and they ran down the staircase, past his chambers, and through the quiet Great Hall. The servants glanced at them with raised eyebrows but said nothing. He led her down another staircase, out a side door, and into a small courtyard.
He spun her around. “There, I have something for you.”
At first she didn’t understand. A groom held the halter of a black horse. She took a few steps closer and studied the animal’s fine head. She put a hand over her mouth.
“Ellie, Ellie, Ellie,” the horse said.
It was High Noon.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh.”
She took the halter from the young man. The horse sniffed her palm, and lipped at her hair. “Ellie, all big now,” he said.
She turned to Gregory. “How did you—”
“I remembered the name, and you said one of your father’s friends had bought him. I asked around at court until I found an old business associate of Mister Brice. He told me who your father hunted with, and I tracked the gentleman down. He has been cared for. He’s old now, but still a fine animal.”
She stroked his nose. He seemed much smaller than she remembered.
Gregory tentatively put a hand on her shoulder. “You can start riding again. High Noon will help you. You’ll be able to join me on hunts soon. We can start your unicorn training.”
She looked up at him. “This is a fine gift, Gregory Desmarais. About the finest you can give me.”
“You give me a gift with your pardon.”
How can he be so thoughtful one moment and so callous the next?
In the end, she chose the thoughtful moments. “I give it,” she said.
He lifted her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. They stood there in the weak LowWinter sunlight. High Noon nibbled at the pockets of her nightgown, looking for the apples a small girl had always remembered to bring him.
CHAPTER 8
Consummation
When Eleanor returned to her room the chambermaids were bustling around as if nothing had happened. Her wedding gown hung from one of the posters on her bed, draped in a linen sheet for protection. The trim consisted of hundreds of tiny jewels of every color. The Fire-iron thread woven through it, added to the rainbow of diamonds, amethysts, sapphires, emeralds and opals, made the dress sparkle like sunshine on the water. For the past six generations every bride of an heir to the throne had worn this gown. After each wearing magicians treated the dress with a preservation spell. The silk was as white as the day it was sewn. Eleanor was taller than any previous Desmarais bride so the magicians lengthened the hems and sleeves. It fit as if it had been made for her.
Gregory’s mother’s jewels lay on the dressing table. Eleanor thought she’d finally summoned the nerve to wear her own mother’s hair comb, but in the end it stayed nestled in the jewelry box beside the cracked slipper. She’d wanted to wear the glass slippers to the wedding, but Rosemary found the cracked one too damaged to repair. Eleanor picked up a wooden box, painted pink and engraved with the legend Telbright and Spat: Maliana’s Finest Luxury Cobblers. A pair of silver slippers with tiny purple and green bows nestled inside. She remembered the nursery rhyme,
Something purple and something green
Must be worn by the future queen
On her wedding day or she be struck
With never a son and only bad luck.
With that merry thought ringing in her head she went to the bathing room. The maid had filled a steaming bath. She stripped off her nightgown and then sunk down until only her nose and eyes were showing. She inhaled the scent of peachberries. The maids had learned she preferred to bathe on her own. She liked the quiet moments stolen in the hot, soapy water.
She spent half an hour in the tub, convincing herself she had done the right thing. She had decided to forgive, and she could not dwell on it if she meant to keep her word. She would think only on Gregory’s good qualities, and believe he could change.
He wanted me. He saw me in my filthy rags, and he still wanted me. My children will never be cold or hungry. Their father will protect them.
Images of him barely able to stand, snippets of his harsh words, tried to sneak through. She shivered and shoved them aside, her toes curling under the bubbles. She reminded herself he had been out of his mind with drink. She particularly avoided the memory of Dorian’s voice through her bedroom door. It was the day of her wedding, a new beginning, and a time to start over. She ignored the voice in her head saying it seemed a bit early for a new start.
Eleanor waited in the vestibule of Humility Chapel on the arm of her soon-to-be father-in-law. If not for the need to stand properly beside him she would have paced the floor. It was all she could do to keep from peeking around the purple and green brocaded tapestry the Godsmen had hung in the doorway to hide her from the congregation. The babble of the guests and the scrapes and whistles of the orchestra tuning up crept around the tapestry. The king’s brooding did nothing to assuage her nerves.
He did not speak as they waited for their cue. She winced when he caught her eye and looked away.
This just won’t do, she thought.
“Your Majesty,” she said. He turned. His eyes were the same chestnut brown as Gregory’s. “I know you don’t approve of me.”
“What?” he stammered. “What do you mean? I never said—”
She put her finger to her lips. “Shhh…please. Let me speak.”
He shut his mouth. She wondered if anyone had ever shushed him before, but she could not take it back now.
“I probably would not approve of myself,” she said. “Some girl who comes out of nowhere. I can tell you, sire, I’m as surprised to be here as you are to have me. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I will work hard, and I will learn, and I do love your son. I think he will be a fine king and I’ll be proud to be his wife. I’ll do my duty to him and to Cartheigh, whatever that duty entails.”
King Casper’s mustache quivered for a moment before he spoke. “My own dear wife wore that dress. She was a very different woman, but it suits you both.”
“Thank you.”
The trumpets sounded.
“We’re off,” the king said.
She barely recognized the simple chapel. Flowers covered every bit of white space. The magicians had brou
ght in live trees, and struck up a cool breeze to fan the hundreds of guests packing the benches. Giant butterflies, the size of flying dinner plates, floated lazily around their heads. Six unicorns stood behind the altar. They tossed their heads and their silky manes lifted in the enchanted breeze. Eleanor smiled and nodded at the familiar faces jumping out at her from the crowd. She caught sight of Rosemary with Chou Chou on her shoulder. Ironically, Imogene, Sylvia, and Margaret sat in the front row, in the place of honor as her only family. Dorian sat across the aisle from them. She let her gaze slide over him as she passed.
Gregory waited for her, straight and handsome, in a white tunic trimmed in purple and green. She climbed the two steps to stand beside him and he took both her hands. The ceremony flew by, the vows, the ring, the Godsman’s compulsory speech. Only the kiss lasted any time at all, and it must have gone on because the audience began twittering. Cheers and whistles went up from the crowd.
Gregory’s mouth slid to her ear. “You have done me the greatest honor.”
They faced the congregation. The Godsman called out, “Prince Gregory Desmarais, heir to the throne of Cartheigh, and his wife, her Royal Highness, Princess Eleanor!”
The chapel erupted in applause. As he led Eleanor down the aisle Gregory drew his sword and slashed the ropes strung at intervals across it. In the old tradition each clean cut would result in a healthy babe. Gregory did not miss one. They climbed into the waiting carriage, where he promptly drew the curtain and spoiled all the hard work that had gone into pressing her gown. It was shockingly wrinkled by the time they reached Eclatant.
As they entered the Grand Ballroom Eleanor wondered how the magicians came up with new decorative enchantments. In keeping with the Waning Fest theme the entire room had been winterized. Fat snowflakes swirled above their heads as if a blizzard were brewing against the ceiling. Icicles hung from the chandeliers, and ice sculptures dotted the room and danced in time to the music. Huge pine trees, which only grew in the farthest north past the Dragon Mines, towered over the dance floor. They glistened with snow. A treat for the guests, as it never snowed in Maliana. Of course, the magicians produced a snowstorm yet maintained the temperature of a summer morning.
Gregory and Eleanor made the rounds, saying hello and accepting congratulations. Brian, Raoul, and Gregory’s other friends avoided her, and as well they should. She was feeling fine, however, and so she released those fish from the hook. She walked into the middle of their little cluster, and offered hugs and kisses. She chided them for being hung-over at her wedding, and made each one promise a dance to make it up to her. They all blushed and apologized and swore to spin her around until she fainted. When she took her leave she knew her point was taken.
Brian Smithwick said it best. “You are too gracious, Your Highness.”
“Oh, don’t I know it, Brian,” she said.
She had the perfunctory chat with her stepmother and stepsisters to give everyone a good show of family unity. Imogene made a point to introduce Eleanor to Hector Fleetwood, Duke of Harveston, who was indeed Sylvia’s husband. Anne Iris had not exaggerated his age.
Eleanor had to shout so he heard her congratulations. She beamed at Sylvia. “Sylvia, you must be so thrilled. I wish you years of love and happiness, and many, many children.”
Sylvia grimaced at her, but before she could reply Eleanor turned to Margaret. She asked with genuine concern after her health and happiness. Margaret curtsied and shyly offered good wishes. Eleanor made up her mind in that instant to call Margaret to the palace, if only to get her away from Sylvia. She murmured her intentions in Margaret’s ear. “Our past familiarity has not left my mind. Hold fast.”
Margaret curtsied. She did not need to lower her perpetually whispering voice. “I shall, Your Highness.”
Eleanor squeezed her hand, then eased through the crowd toward her husband. Dorian Finley stepped in front of her before she was halfway there. His gold tunic turned his eyes amber. “Good evening, Your Highness.”
“Good evening, Dorian,” she said, with a wooden smile.
“Will you dance with me later?”
“I’m sorry, I’m a bit tired.”
He went to the point. “Eleanor, last night—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.
“But—”
“I’ve put it out of my mind.”
His silence spoke loudly.
“Don’t look at me that way. What would you have me do?”
“I suppose I don’t know.”
“Exactly.” She peered around his shoulder. “Let’s not speak of it again, shall we?” She silently begged him to leave it alone.
He bowed and moved aside. She rushed to find Gregory.
The rest of the evening went smoothly. Gregory gave a heartwarming toast. He praised his bride and thanked all eight hundred guests for sharing this special occasion with them. The dancing began in earnest, with the new couple taking the first one on their own. Eleanor recognized the waltz as the first dance they had shared at the Second Sunday Ball. She kissed him for remembering. She avoided looking at Dorian as he watched solemnly from the edge of the crowd. The music picked up when the song finished and to Eleanor’s joy nearly every person in the ballroom joined in. She danced with men she knew and those she didn’t, and even took a reel with the king himself. Dorian disappeared, and she did not seek him out. Like he had in the beginning, Gregory filled her eyes.
At one o’clock in the morning they made a grand show of leaving the ballroom amid good-natured wolf whistles and shouts of advice. By the time they saw Gregory’s door they were nearly running. Despite her happiness Eleanor was glad the guard was not the same man who witnessed her shame last night. He stepped back and gave the prince room to open the door for his new wife.
The flames in the fireplace threw shadows on the white silk curtains cascading around Gregory’s bed. Eleanor watched the patterns change. She glanced enviously at Gregory lying on his stomach. She could not see his face, but the slow rise of his back and a gentle rasping snore told her he slept soundly. Eleanor, on the other hand, found sleep eluded her again.
How am I laying here, my husband sound asleep, when I was just now rushing to this room in the heat of passion?
Things had gone dodgy as soon as they entered Gregory’s chambers. First, she quickly realized how drunk he was when he tripped over a sheath of hunting arrows and spilled them all over the floor. The complicated buttons on her dress presented quite a challenge. He turned her this way and that, one eye screwed shut, until she finally reached up to undo the ones she could manage herself. This disrobing would prove to be the longest part of the consummation of her marriage.
When he finished the unbuttoning ritual Gregory wasted no time. He yanked his tunic off. Her dress fell to the floor and he scooped her up. She landed on the bed with a soft whup and sank into the thick coverlet. She looked up at him as he yanked at his own belt. It nearly whacked her as it slipped from the loops.
She wasn’t sure of the exact position, but she gamely bent one knee to give him room.
“This one, too.” He grabbed her other knee and forced it up.
“Sorry,” she said.
He leaned forward until her eyes met with his breastbone. Tufts of brown chest hair peeped at her from his undershirt collar. Something poked urgently at her belly, her pelvic bone, and the top of her thigh.
Curiosity and a desire to help made her reach down tentatively. She touched something hot and hard, and her hand darted away as he moaned. She tried again, but he seemed to have found the proper path on his own.
What followed was a push, a few pulls, a few more pushes, a sharp jab of pain, and a grunt on his part. She tried to see his face, but as his shirt buttons were practically rubbing against her nose she had to be content with a glimpse of his open mouth and a few teeth. He collapsed against her, and for a moment between his weight and the blankets around her face she feared she might suffocate. She was about to shove him off
when he rolled over, breathing hard.
Is he really sweating? She thought.
He kissed her cheek, and mumbled a few words of affection. She had barely responded before he turned away.
Eliza, as Eleanor’s one married friend, had enlightened her to the intriguing realties of the marital bed. Upon examination Eleanor found a sticky wetness between her legs, and a dark smudge of blood, which were part and parcel according to Eliza’s instruction. She had indeed been inducted into the rites of marriage. There was nothing, however, of the evening’s excited anticipation, or the pleasure Eliza had hinted at in her prim description. At this juncture she had to conclude that Eliza’s spectacled country gentleman was a more skilled lover than the crown prince.
Perhaps I did something wrong. After all, he has some experience with this subject, even if it is the paying kind, and I have none.
She resolved to ask her friend as soon as the opportunity arose if she had missed some trick. The whole experience left her empty, as if she had started a five-course meal and been allowed only the soup.
She decided to see if Gregory had anything to read. It hadn’t worked last night, but books where always her fallback when she saw no other option. Her husband was no academic but there had to be something around. As she climbed out of bed she remembered her nakedness. Her eyes fell on a nightgown laid out on the footrest, the lacy arms akimbo, waiting for an embrace that hadn’t come. She slid it over her head and made a cursory check of the bedroom. She found nothing but a copy of A Magician’s Guide to Poker.
She knew Gregory’s chambers were larger than her own and consisted of several interconnected rooms. She opened the first door and discovered a large washroom. The second was the servants’ closet. On the third try she succeeded.
Gregory’s study was a cozy rectangular room that oozed manliness. A fire crackled in the deep hearth across from several high-backed couches upholstered in dark cowhide. A few unfortunate foxes and deer graced the walls, along with several more exotic creatures; a furry monkeyfish, a rare spiked tortoise, two fairies who glared at her from beady glass eyes, and something like a giant rabbit with sharp front teeth the length of her arm. So many vanquished beasts gave the whole place the faint odor of old hair. A round card table and a strikestick table rounded out the furnishings. Nothing appealed to Eleanor but the hundreds of books lining the shelves.
The Cracked Slipper Page 8