The Cracked Slipper

by Stephanie Alexander

  “Anyway,” said Margaret, “when Mother told me I just couldn’t believe it…the ambassador? He’s so…worldly.” Margaret raised her voice to be heard over the shouting, the music, and the magicians’ popping and fizzing light displays.

  “He is handsome and charming, but you give Christopher Roffi too much praise and spare none for yourself,” said Eleanor. She waved away the smoke drifting down from the dissipating spellwork. “He would be a lucky man if a lady such as yourself showed him favor.”

  Margaret slipped her arm through Eleanor’s and gave her a little squeeze. “You’re the sweetest of friends, but I’ve never attracted men like Roffi. Still, he has been very attentive, so maybe Mother is right. Maybe he does fancy me!” She giggled and blushed as if Roffi were standing right in front of them. “Roffi asked Mother if he could call on me. Would you mind? We would see a lot of him.”

  “Of course I don’t mind, if it makes you happy, but what about Raoul? You’ve been eyeing him all summer. I think he likes you. Poor thing, he’s more than you are!”

  Margaret sighed. “Yes, Raoul is a sweet boy. But the ambassador, that is a man.”

  Eleanor could not help but laugh at the changes a few months had wrought in Margaret. When they could put it off no longer they made their way to the dining tables and found their place cards. Eleanor would sit between Gregory and Christopher Roffi, with Margaret on Roffi’s far side. She thought Margaret might faint when she read her name, but her teasing was cut short by a fluttering at her shoulder.

  “Chou!” she said, waving at him. “Watch my hair.”

  “Very funny,” he said. He landed on her outstretched arm. “I’m so pleased by your good spirits I hate delivering this message.”

  “Then don’t. Lately you bring me too much disturbing news.”

  “I only tell what needs telling.”

  “I know,” she said with a sigh. “Out with it. I would rather it was not about my husband.”

  He crept up her arm and spoke in her ear. “No, it’s about Sylvia.”

  “Not much better.”

  “She’ll make an announcement tonight. She’s pregnant. Four months along.”

  Eleanor pressed her lips together. “Well, she should be congratulated. As should her husband, for the strength to hold her down long enough to mount her.”

  “There are rumors about,” said Chou.

  Eleanor nodded. Sylvia was universally praised as a hostess this summer, but she was not above reproach. When the women were not deriding the princess’s unladylike outbursts of political opinion, they were hinting that the Duchess of Harveston’s eye, and perhaps the rest of her, often wandered from her elderly husband.

  Gregory appeared beside Eleanor and pulled out her chair. “Chou Chou,” he said. “Good evening.”

  “Your Highness,” said Chou, bowing.

  “We’re about to begin. The bowls are stocked with berries, if you would care to join the other birds at the roost.”

  “Certainly.” Chou nipped Eleanor’s ear before taking his leave.

  “Your parrot is always very gracious,” said Gregory.

  “Thank you,” said Eleanor. “I’m sure he would be pleased to hear you say so.” Eleanor hated these conversations. How ridiculous, talking about the manners of a bird with the man who had shared her bed until three weeks ago. She wished something hilarious would happen, perhaps a pie falling out of the sky and landing on Oliver’s head, so they could have a good laugh together. She didn’t know what else might break the tension.

  She sat down. Christopher Roffi joined them, and he whispered to Margaret, who colored yet again. Roffi turned to Eleanor. His face was all strong angles, as if carved out of the rocky faces of the Scaled Mountains that divided his country from Cartheigh. Even on this muggy summer night he wore a red tunic trimmed in black fur, but not one bead of sweat dampened his forehead. The goatee covering his chin was the one distraction from his pleasing appearance. The only Carthean men who wore facial hair were contemporaries of the king and older, and it seemed out of place.

  “Your Highness,” he said. His accent was thick, the consonants harsh, as if he were swallowing them. “What have I done to deserve a seating between two such ladies?”

  Eleanor smiled. “You flatter me, Mister Roffi, but I do agree Margaret is glowing tonight.”

  He was witty and interesting and the conversation flowed with the wine. As the servants passed the bread he lowered his voice. Margaret and Eleanor leaned in.

  “You know I am only recently arriving,” he said, “ and sometimes I am…how are you saying it? At a losing for who is who.”

  Eleanor laughed. “Oh, Mister Roffi, I share your pain.”

  “Please, call me Christopher. I would be greatly appreciating it if you two ladies would be my…my…”

  “Confidants?” offered Margaret. The color had not left her face in half an hour, so another blush left her near purple.

  “I am not knowing the word…but if I could look to either of you for help in these matters I would be grateful.”

  “Of course,” said Eleanor. “You just come to Margaret or myself. If we can, we will enlighten you.”

  Their host, Sir Robert Smithwick, rose and gave a toast to the health of his nephew. Other speeches followed, each more suggestive than the next. She laughed out loud when Dorian subtly mocked Brian’s inability to hold his liquor. Gregory spoke last, and gave a surprisingly thoughtful salute to his cousin. She patted his arm when he sat, and he gave her a tentative smile.

  As everyone returned to their venison and cliff shrimp Imogene tapped her goblet. She rose and lifted the cup. “I must ask you to pause for one more moment,” she said. “I have another announcement.”

  “My darling,” she said to Sylvia. “We’ve all so enjoyed your hospitality this summer. But now my daughter must remember herself, and rest, for with the winter will arrive a future duke! Our dear Sylvia is expecting!”

  The guests applauded, congratulating Imogene and Sylvia. Sylvia gazed demurely in her lap, as if embarrassed by the association with procreation. As for the expectant father, he was nowhere to be seen. His wife’s entertaining had proved too much for him, and the duke returned to Harveston for some peace.

  Eleanor glanced down the table. Anne Iris retched into her cup, but it was Dorian’s calm face that inspired her. She stood and the room quieted. “My dear sister,” she said. “Let me extend my good wishes.”

  Sylvia’s simpering went rigid.

  “I will say, Sylvia always had a flair for the dramatic when we were children. Who knew you would entertain so many with your widely varied talents? While I have recently been ill, I’ve heard you neglect no one, from the loftiest lord to the most common stable hand. We are so fortunate there is one among us who gives so generously of herself to others. It’s no wonder His Grace, your husband, took his leave. It must be difficult to share you with so many.”

  Imogene’s eyes bulged and her nostrils flared, while Sylvia gave an uncertain twitter. Eleanor looked at Dorian again. He winked.

  “So I salute you, Your Grace,” she said. “May your child look just like you. Just as lovely.”

  The guests applauded, all the while hiding their smirks and chuckles in their goblets and napkins. Eleanor sat down. This time Gregory touched her arm. “Well played,” he said.

  Sylvia and Imogene were subdued for the rest of the night. Gregory and Eleanor spoke more than they had in weeks, and danced several waltzes and a reel. She could feel him making amends in his creeping way, like a cat twisting around its master’s legs. She sighed as she watched him teasing Brian, who was already pissing drunk before the meal was through.

  He is as he is, she thought.

  For the first time she acknowledged she might not be able to change him. There was something freeing in the acceptance. Now she must figure out how she would live with him.

  Dorian took her arm, interrupting her musings. They’d had no chance to talk since she emerged from her bed
room.

  “You are a fine speaker. Would you deliver the eulogy at my funeral?” he asked.

  She punched him. “How dare you bring up such a depressing thought when I am only just delivered from my sickbed.”

  “How are you feeling?” The humor left his voice.

  She did not know if he understood the true nature of her illness, but she didn’t want to speak of it here. “I’m well, thank you. I’ve missed everyone.”

  “We missed you. It’s not the same without you.”

  She did not know how to respond, so she pointed out the commotion at the head of the ballroom, where the dining tables had stood. “We’re in for a show. What are they doing?”

  “Arranging their drums.”

  “Drums?” Flutes and fiddles drove the music of Cartheigh and the surrounding nations. Court music did not call for many percussion instruments.

  “Yes. The performers are a traveling troop from Mendae. I saw them last time they came to Eclatant. They’re fascinating.”

  Five men, with the dark skin and hair of the far southern kingdoms across the Shallow Sea, arranged themselves in front of the drummers. They wore baggy white trousers and had bare chests and feet. One of the magicians lowered the candlelight and the guests hushed. The drums started, slowly at first. Each drum had a different size and shape, yet the drummers worked in precise time together. The men came to life, leaping and spinning as the rhythm built. Every tiny movement synchronized with the throbbing drums in unison with the other performers. Unlike dancers in Eleanor’s experience, they stayed low. The muscles in their thighs strained, like predators about to spring. It was perfectly controlled and perfectly wild. Her head bobbed, almost of its own accord.

  “You like it,” Dorian said into her ear. She grinned her answer.

  The beat built to a frenzy before crashing to a halt. The dancers froze, and Eleanor could see the sheen of sweat on their bodies. The guests applauded and pushed forward, eager to meet their exotic entertainment.

  Eleanor was surprised at how readily everyone accepted the colorful foreigners and their outlandish performance. Even Lady Chesterwaite, who was so proper she had refused to show her gout-ridden ankles to a witch and now walked with a cane. The old crone shook hands with one of the performers and gushed as if he were the king’s long lost brother.

  “Dorian, how long will the Mendaens be with us?”

  “They usually stay on for a few days,” he said. “They’ll do some private shows and rest their horses.”

  “Wonderful. That’s all the time I need.”

  “Why? What are you up to?”

  She laughed. The orchestra started up again. “Dance with me.”

  The next day Gregory suggested an overnight hunting trip to the Egg Camp, one of the royal hunting lodges outside Solsea, and Dorian agreed it was a fine idea. He hoped for a hard ride and a peaceful evening, but he should have known better. Gregory included not only their usual retinue but also the sons of several important courtiers and Christopher Roffi.

  The Egg, which could hardly be called a camp, was a three story, oblong stone house that made Dorian feel as if he were sleeping in a giant jam jar. During the summer, a full-time groundskeeper kept the Egg well stocked with wine, spirits, and clean linens. Ancient beams crisscrossed the ceiling. There were no paintings or decorations on the dark wood walls, only a huge stuffed bear in the corner of the sitting room. Dorian and Gregory had christened the bear Fluffernuts one drunken evening years ago, and the name stuck. They drank several toasts to his health during each stay, although, since he was dead it was not much help to him.

  The hunting party had a successful day in the fields. Gregory took down a ringbuck, and promptly sent the beast back to Solsea to be stuffed, mounted, and added to the furnishings at Trill. The cooks they brought along produced a fine meal from their other killings. Dorian reclined in a squashy armchair in front of the fire with a pint of ale. A belly full of pheasant made him sleepy.

  Gregory, on the other hand, was not sleepy at all. Dorian had not seen him so buoyant in weeks. He banged his fist on the table. “Gentlemen! I’m so pleased you all joined me today.” They men raised their glasses, toasting his generosity. “Now, it was a long afternoon, and we’re all well fed, but I think we’ve worked up other appetites.”

  Gregory nodded at the butler, who opened the kitchen door to a flood of gingham and lace. Dorian counted a dozen young women, all of them attractive, before he gave up.

  “My friends, enjoy yourselves,” said Gregory.

  The women dispersed among the ever more enthusiastic men. Dorian drained his glass, and settled back to watch his friends make fools of themselves in ways never tolerated in polite society.

  “Dorian!” Gregory called. Two ladies had joined him at the table. A dark-haired girl stood behind him, rubbing his neck, while her blonde companion slithered into his lap.

  Dorian took the seat beside him. When she realized her friend was making more headway with Gregory, the dark-haired girl transferred her attention.

  “She’s nice, huh?” said Gregory, leaning close.

  “Nice, yes.”

  “Oh, come on. I don’t understand you lately. We’ve been here over a month, and I’ve not yet heard any scandalous stories about you.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you. It’s just getting tiresome, I suppose.”

  “Afraid you’ll end up with another Lady Lynwood?”

  “HighGod forbid.”

  Dorian had become involved with Lady Jane Lynwood, the wife of an elderly wine magnate from the town of Sage, last summer during the Solsea holidays. She was ten years his senior, and beautiful, and she wore him out for half the summer. Gregory had teased him mercilessly that he would walk with a permanent limp if he didn’t get rid of her. Lady Lynwood, however, had other ideas. Even after the summer’s end, when Dorian thought himself well finished with her, she continued writing, professing love and demanding to see him. When he didn’t respond, she came to court and heartily embarrassed herself by getting drunk and crying in the corner at the Harvest Ball. He stuck to simpler dalliances after that, but even those had lost their appeal in the last few months.

  “I learned my lesson with that one.” Dorian shook his head.

  “True. It’s much better for men like us to stick to more anonymous encounters.”

  Dorian let the comment lie. He removed the dark-haired girl’s hands from his shoulders.

  “Anyway,” Gregory said. “I can’t let you wallow, or get out of practice. What kind of friend would I be?” He pointed at the narrow stone staircase.

  “What do you mean?” Dorian asked.

  “Go upstairs, my friend, and find out. I’ve left something there for you.”

  “I don’t know, Greg, I’m tired.”

  Gregory whispered in the blonde girl’s ear. She smiled sweetly, slid off his lap and disappeared under the table. Gregory leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Go upstairs, Dorian. Third floor, second door.”

  Dorian walked across the room. The staircase, and whatever the third floor held, both beckoned to him and repulsed him. He found the second door and opened it to a bedroom full of heavy furniture upholstered in blue and green plaids, the kind one would imagine in the home of a well-to-do farmer. A patchwork quilt covered the bed. The only light came from two ornate candelabras, one on the mantle and one beside the bare hearth. A young woman in a plain gray dress, the kind the servants wore to chapel, turned when she heard him enter. She had light brown hair, and was pretty in a fresh, country way. Dorian could almost smell the sea air rolling off her. “Hello,” he said.

  She curtsied, and held the pose. He came closer to her, and he saw her tremble. He set his drink on a chest of drawers. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Molly, sir.”

  “And do you live close by?”

  “Aye, sir. My father is a fisherman in the village.”

  She wouldn’t meet his eye. “How did you end up here, Molly?�
�

  She swallowed. “I’m a good girl, sir. I am. The prince’s men came, and they offered us…my father don’t make much…a lot of people to feed…”

  “Shhh, I understand.” He lifted her chin. “You can go if you want. I’ll not say anything.”

  She finally looked at him. Her eyes flickered over his face. She bit her lip. “No,” she whispered. “I’ll stay.”

  “Face the hearth,” he said. In the candlelight her hair seemed paler. He pushed it aside and kissed the side of her neck. Her dress was a simple affair compared with the ornate gowns of the court ladies, and he loosened it with the tug of a ribbon. It slid off her shoulders and formed a heap of cheap cotton at their feet. He ran his hands over her body, feeling her chest rising as he cupped her breasts. He wandered down between her thighs. She gasped, but he didn’t stop. She might not have wanted to come here, but it shouldn’t be unpleasant for her.

  A few minutes later her knees buckled and she cried out. He held her up. “Now, this part may be a little more uncomfortable, but I promise I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

  She nodded and tried to face him, but he didn’t want to look at her. He didn’t want to see her simple gray eyes, with no hint of dark imperfection. He eased her to the ground and loosened his own belt. She lay on her side on the thick bearskin rug with her back to him. He watched the flickering candles over her shoulder as he made love to her.

  Dessick, the leader of the Mendaen dance troop, had thought Eleanor crazy, and told her so. Now, as she was about to enter a packed ballroom, in pants no less, she began to think he was right.

  Eleanor had invited the Mendaens to stay at Trill for a few days, in the guest quarters of Speck Cottage, under the pretext of learning about the culture of the southern kingdoms. She assumed Gregory had granted her request out of guilt, but no matter, because she had been telling the truth about her curiosity. She just left out the particulars of how she would expand her knowledge.