16
The Invitation
The morning that followed crawled by in a slow haze, for my continued lack of sleep meant I had little strength to protest Celia’s requests—nor did I wish to risk the punishment of additional work for a moment of defiance.
But the hours wore on as they tend to do, and as I sat cleaning ash and cinder in the warmth of late afternoon, there could be no mistaking the sound of hooves and wheels, venturing closer and closer down the drive. My heart leapt at the sound, for we didn’t have visitors anymore. Celia invited no one for tea, and after the doctor’s visit, no one called.
I resisted the urge to bolt from my seat on the floor and peer through the curtains, for both Victoria and Charlotte sat in the parlour as well and seemed to have forgotten about me for the moment. I preferred not to remind them.
The clopping of hooves stopped abruptly. A carriage door opened and shut, and three sharp raps on our door were followed by a fourth with great finality.
Neither sister stirred.
“Who do you suppose that is?” Victoria folded her hands in her lap, setting aside needle and embroidery.
“Who cares?” Charlotte flung her piece of fabric at the ground. “I hate needles. And napkins. And visitors. Ugh, it’s not like I’ll ever need to be able to do this after I’m married anyway.”
I wanted to tell her that in that case, she’d better keep at it but another set of knocks—more urgent this time—stilled the words on my tongue.
Charlotte stared at me. “Well?”
Did the girl lack even the tiniest bit of sense? “You want me to represent the family?”
She continued staring, and though I looked to Victoria, she maintained her habit of pretending I didn’t exist. Unless she had want of me for something, of course.
With a sigh and a shrug, I rose and headed to the door, where the knocks came a third time. But this round was accompanied by a loud and ocean-deep voice.
“Open, by order of the King.”
I froze, and my fingers turned to outstretched icicles against the handle.
William’s coat. The ring. Had he finally remembered? I had been a fool to choose the words I did at our parting.
“Who is it?” Charlotte shrieked from the parlour.
Perhaps I could pretend as though I hadn’t seen either item. Or that I had a twin who’d taken them away, or that it was Victoria, not me, who’d met him—
My fingers closed around the handle, for not to answer the door at all would doubtless do nothing but serve to reinforce whatever notion the visitors might have about us and what we—no, I—had done.
I opened the door. My life was full of doors opening and closing, but up until that particular door, none had been more important.
None. Believe me. None.
A rotund, blue-coated man stood on our front step, dark beard trimmed nicely to cling to the corners of a thin moustache. On his head, a teacup. At least, it looked like one, turned upside-down and plunked on his head, if teacups were blue and starched cotton, and lacked handles.
What I mean to say is, his hat looked so ridiculous that I might have laughed, had the fear of seeing a royal messenger on our doorstep not caused me to clench my thighs in fright.
Remember, fear makes one tremble and weep and piss. The second I held back out of hope, the third out of necessity.
I curtsied to the messenger. “Good day, sir. Won’t you come in?”
The stern eyes softened as he regarded me, and for the second time since Celia’s arrival, I wondered at my appearance. My cheeks grew warm as he appraised my outfit. It wasn’t my fault I wore a stained, dirty dress. Necessity warranted certain sacrifices.
I didn’t want his pity.
He inclined his head, a gesture I surely didn’t deserve or expect. “The same to you, kind miss. Is the man or lady of the house about?”
I began to answer, but my words were drowned by the screeching voice of my favourite sister.
“Who the hell is it, you lazy, cinder-sweeping wench? I swear, you’re—” Charlotte rounded the doorway from the parlour and stopped, mouth agape.
“And good day to you as well,” said the messenger, catching my eye with a sly wink as he addressed the gaping git.
“Why, hello.” Charlotte recovered with a deep curtsy. “Greetings and good health to you, sir.”
I tried to catch her eye myself, but she appeared mesmerized by the insignia patch on the gentleman’s coat. I cleared my throat instead.
Charlotte glared at me. “What?”
“Perhaps Cel—uh, Stepmother should be here to greet our visitor.”
“Perhaps.” She continued to stand in the hallway like a stunned deer.
“Could you retrieve her?” Had she never received any training in something so simple as manners?
She sniffed. “That’s not my job. You find her. I’ll entertain our guest.” To him, “Do come in, please. Don’t mind her, she has no place speaking to a man of your obvious standing, I—”
He held up a hand to silence her nattering. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay right here. I’m delivering a message across town, not here for a social call. I promise not to take more than a few minutes of your time. If one of you could retrieve the lady and return here with her, I would be most appreciative. And if there are other eligible ladies at home?”
At the word eligible, Celia appeared at the top of the staircase like a ghost revealed. I held my breath at her appearance, for it was she who would either hold our family’s reputation or destroy it with the words that followed.
I wished I’d been wearing something more appropriate. And brought Edward to the door with me. And possibly neglected to admit the others’ existence.
“Greetings,” Celia announced, sweeping down the stairs. As she drew closer, I noticed she wore a gown of deep violet lace, with a high-buttoned collar and two strings of pearls around her neck. Her hair was perfectly curled and pinned high atop her head, and rouge lightly colored each cheek, accenting her natural stunning beauty.
She’d seen him coming. Of course she had.
I burned with jealousy.
She glanced at me with casual dismissal. “Thank you, girl. You may go.”
Girl?
“Actually, lady, I would prefer that she stay.” The messenger’s smile held kindness and sincerity. “This concerns all the young ladies of the household.”
Celia’s eyebrow raised as she reached the bottom step. “Oh? Well. If she must.”
If eyes lit fires, Charlotte’s glare would have burned me where I stood. Celia called for Victoria, who glided into the hallway with her nose high in the air and enveloped in silent haughtiness. With the four of us in the same place, I became acutely aware of my own situation.
How I ached for Father.
How my face burned with shame for what I’d allowed them to make of me.
“Well?” Celia’s words dripped like boiled honey, making my teeth hurt and my stomach turn. “Here we are. Are you sure you won’t have any tea?”
He shook his head, drew an envelope from a leather satchel at his belt and a scroll from the inner pocket of his coat. The scroll he unrolled with dramatic flair and another wink in my direction.
“To the King’s Loyal Subjects,” he read, “by royal decree, on the twelfth of May, the royal family has declared the commencement of a festival which is to last three days. The King encourages much merrymaking by all, and would be delighted to host any manner of entertainers, musicians, and tale-tellers at court for the entertainment of all the kingdom’s citizens. Prince William will attend to the guests on the evening of each festival day at the Royal Balls, and the festival will culminate with an extraordinary announcement that shall be made in celebration of Prince William’s seventeenth birthday, on the third eve.”
At this, the messenger paused and looked at Victoria, Charlotte, and myself in turn. “All young ladies of eligibility are encou
raged and invited to attend these three balls with their chaperon.”
Three gasps in the entranceway.
My heart dropped into my shoes, and though I willed it to return to its place in my chest, it didn’t listen.
The messenger rolled the scroll, replaced it in his coat, and handed the envelope to Celia in one smooth, practiced motion.
“We’re honoured,” Celia gushed, “and of course we’ll attend.” Her minions nodded with such forceful eagerness, I feared their heads might pop off. “Do convey our appreciation and acceptance to the Royal Family.”
“Of course,” he said, bowing his head. “And with that, good day, and I expect we shall see the four of you in your finest on the twelfth of May.”
“Four?” Charlotte cried.
I saw Celia’s elbow drive into Charlotte’s side, though I’ll never know if our guest did.
“Indeed,” Celia oozed. “All four of us will be delighted and honoured to celebrate the Prince’s birthday. And, I assume, to compete for his hand, yes?”
The messenger merely smiled. “I’ve only been instructed to read the announcement, and can’t say I’m privy to any other information at this time. However, one may draw certain inferences from the wording … ”
“Naturally.” Celia brushed past to open the door and usher him out. “Thank you so much for your attention. We won’t miss it for anything.”
He touched his hat to bid farewell, but as he turned to leave, we shared a private moment of understanding—he, determined that I should know that I, too, counted among those invited to the affair, and I, grateful beyond my own apprehending that someone should acknowledge my worth apart from what had become the daily trials around the household.
And with that, he left.
Celia clapped her hands together as the clop of horse hooves grew ever further away. “Isn’t this an interesting development, hmm?”
“My God, Mother. Imagine that.” Victoria’s fervent murmur cut through her mother’s enthusiasm. “An invitation to the palace, and balls besides. You realize what this means, don’t you?”
Celia’s placid smile morphed into a deep, curling grin that, oddly enough, enhanced her exquisite features. It was a good thing she wasn’t eligible. Pity the prince who married one of her offspring, however.
“Girls. Darlings. This is it.” Celia placed a hand on each of her daughters’ shoulders, sending me back into oblivion. “This is what we’ve been waiting for. Our moment. Do you understand?”
They nodded as one, heads bobbing like fish toward bait.
“But, Mother, what will we wear? And what of our shoes and hair and … there’s so much to do!” Charlotte’s expression grew frantic, eyes squinting until I felt sure she’d never see again.
Celia patted them both. “There’s little time, and much to accomplish. I’ll see to it you have new gowns made, and I’ll bring in one of the etiquette tutors to review your dance steps and the finer points of speech. One thing is for certain, however. One dance with either of you and he will be ours.”
“Ours?” mumbled Victoria.
“Our family, dear girl. With a royal marriage comes power and influence, and a prince’s riches will make this place look like a pauper’s hovel.”
Their eyes grew round and greedy, and I imagined they’d dream of coins clinking in coffers tonight.
“You will meet the Prince. He will choose one of you. Do you both understand?”
I stifled my own cry of surprise as both Charlotte’s and Victoria’s eyes lost their light, faces growing slack and dull at the sound of Celia’s voice and her hands on their shoulders.
The same way Father’s had, that day in the parlour.
I hadn’t imagined it. I had not been wrong.
Something about my stepmother was very, very wrong, and in only a few days she would stand in the same room as the King himself.
And with William.
I had to warn him.
17
The Second Circle
“I should like to go, too,” I said, though a wiser part of me knew the folly of the request.
The girls’ vision cleared as Celia lifted her hands and turned to face me. I stepped back, away from her reach.
Just in case.
Charlotte began to laugh. “Surely you jest. You’re far too pathetic to even set foot outside our gate, let alone the palace.”
“Now, now,” Celia said, folding her arms. “The invitation was extended to all eligible girls.”
“But, Mother—”
Celia’s glance stilled Charlotte’s tongue. “Ellison, so long as you complete your daily chores and have something suitable to wear, I don’t see why you shouldn’t attend. Right, girls?”
A wicked, wicked grin inched its way across Victoria’s fair visage. “Of course, Mother.”
Charlotte refused to comment, for which I felt relieved. If only two of three plotted against me, all the better.
“Thank you,” I said, and curtsied for good measure. “I’ll be sure to do just that.” I left the room to resume my work among the ashes.
And so, I felt no surprise at Celia’s announcement a short time later that she and the girls were headed to town to have gowns, hats, and the Almighty knows what else made for the upcoming festival. The moment they were out of sight, I ran to the kitchen, retrieved William’s coat and ring, and bolted back to the parlour. With a swift hand, I pressed the latch and released the fireplace from the wall, crept inside, and closed the door.
Through the passages I went, back to the book. I retrieved it and the bone key and, with as much haste as possible, hid them both on the passage floor outside Father’s office. I prayed they would be safe there.
But as I emerged from the passageway and into my former chamber, soft thumping on the stairs lifted my spirits to a place I’d thought had disappeared forever.
“Edward?” I burst from the room and ran to the stairs. “Are you up?”
His beautiful face, so innocent of the madness around him, peered up at me from the center of the staircase. He sat with a model tin carriage in one hand and a carved wooden horse in the other, running them up and down the steps with fervor. Scattered about were several toy soldiers and at least one of my childhood dolls. A part of me yearned for the days when my greatest concern was what I might dress each doll in for the day ahead, but only a part. One cannot live in innocence forever, insomuch as I wished it for my own brother.
“Ellison!” He smiled at me and my heart turned to jelly. “Come play with me.”
I joined him on the steps and chose a well-loved soldier whose paint had seen better days. “How are you feeling, Eddie? Better?”
He nodded, and ran the horse down my leg. “Much better. Stepmother has been looking after me, though I still don’t like the way she reads our stories. She lets me have extra biscuits, though.”
Did she, now? So she still wasn’t above buying his favour. “Are you all right, for certain? I mean, with Father gone. You must miss him terribly. I do.”
It was cruel of me to bring it up, I know. But what could I do? A sister has to reclaim her family somehow, and sometimes brief pain is the only way to draw one memory forth over another.
“I wish Father would come home,” he sighed, and I delighted in his sadness, if only because it meant he hadn’t forgotten us.
“And what of Charlotte and Victoria, do they read to you? Or play games? Toss the ball, or sing you to sleep?” In truth, I knew they didn’t, but I craved reassurance.
He laughed and threw his arms around my neck, and I pulled him onto my lap, though I’m sure we both knew he’d grown a mite big for it.
“No,” he said, “but I don’t think I’d want them to. They’d step in a puddle and scream, or run at the sight of a housefly.”
My turn to laugh. “That, I think, is exactly the truth.” I plucked a small, red ball from the pile of toys on the step below. “But they aren’t here right no
w, which means I am privileged to a moment of my own. Shall we?”
He tore the ball from my fingers, rolled it down the stairs, and leapt down after it.
“Meet you outside,” I called after him. Though I might lose my dignity and my freedom at their hands, I would not lose my brother, too.
They returned as the sky grew dark, and because I had spent my day with Edward instead of cleaning or mending or—Celia’s newest favourite task for me—shovelling dung in our stable, I received one verbal thrashing, one slap across the cheek, and a revoking of the night’s dinner. Little did Celia know, Edward and I had already feasted, thanks to Cook’s generosity and good company. Of course, the three of us swore it to secrecy.
And little did they all know, I minded not the tasks so much with each day, for they grew a mite easier as my strength increased. But I would not tell them that—surely doing so would invite even more burdens, and I barely had enough time and patience for those already given.
But after yet another threat to my brother’s safety—this time from Charlotte—I spent my evening in a mad scramble to finish the day’s chores. Even as the rest of the household packed away the remains of the day and retired to lay down their heads, I remained at my final task, once again at the hearth, sweeping charred ash and cinder from a fireplace that I’m sure they used purely out of spite.
Who lights a fire in the flush of May?
My limbs ached and eyelids drooped, so I gave in to the peace of closing one’s eyes only once or twice, though my mind knew I shouldn’t. My body had other ideas. And, as no one seemed to notice that I hadn’t yet climbed the stairs to my attic prison, I awoke mid-night to a darkened parlour with moonlight streaming through the gauzy curtains and soot all over my face.
I’d fallen asleep among the ashes.
A notion crept up my spine, resting just below my common sense before overwhelming any inkling of self-preservation I might have had.
For as frightful as the events were of several nights past, I had spent the days since wondering what might have happened, had I not lost my head and fled. After all, Father gave me the key, and though the book had been hidden, I wondered if he hadn’t a reason for wanting to keep both safe.
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