The Ring and the Crown

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Ronan nodded; that seemed like a sound proposition. She imagined herself walking on the carpet, holding up a corner of the princess’s long train, a demure smile on her lips.

  “Where are you staying?” Fernanda asked, taking a handful of nuts from a silver bowl on the table and chewing noisily.

  “Claridge, in the royal suite.”

  Fernanda nodded approvingly and gave Ronan a long look up and down, taking in her jeweled fan and the spray of yellow diamonds in her hair, along with the aforementioned gray silk. “Is that Worth?” she asked, meaning Ronan’s dress. “Mama wouldn’t let me have it when we were in Paris. Said it’s frightfully expensive. But no expense is too much for you Americans, is it?”

  Ronan smiled mysteriously and did not deny it.

  “Remind me of your name, darling,” her new friend said. “I didn’t catch it earlier. You’re a friend of Aunt Connie’s, aren’t you?”

  “Ronan Astor,” Ronan said proudly. “From New York.”

  Fernanda clinked her glass against hers. “Well, Ronan, welcome to London. Here’s to a fabulous season.”

  After he revealed his plan for their future, Leo continued to call on Isabelle at every possible moment, stealing kisses and demanding other advantages. She had allowed it until last night, when she told him in no uncertain terms that it was over. She would not come to him anymore when he called for her. She was not a dog to be whistled for when its master wanted it.

  How low she had sunk, she thought the next evening, remembering his smirk. Leo seemed to believe that nothing would change between them—that Isabelle was merely having a little temper tantrum, and it would soon pass. Her father and mother must have been turning in their graves. Her father Charles always spoke about the glories of their house and their vaunted bloodline, but it was all so long ago. Charles was no King of France—had never even been a prince of France, but merely a vintner, a farmer, one who was too proud for his own good. He would have spit on the Bal du Drap d’Or. The annual ball commemorated the victory of the English over the French. It was said that the first celebration had gone on for days on a field of cloth-of-gold. There had been jousting tournaments, a carnival, a castle made of gold, banquets and feasts that went on for two weeks; even a legendary drakon and its rydder had performed aerobatics in the sky.

  It was the night before the ball, and Isabelle was accompanying Louis-Philippe to one of the minor operas to take her mind off her pain. Her young cousin looked so handsome in his fine new clothes. She was glad that Hugh had sprung for a decent wardrobe for Louis for the season.

  Isabelle recalled now that Hugh was called the “Red Duke” as a derisive nickname because it was only through a fluke of the law that he came into the lands and title, as he was a distant relative through a minor line who had lucked into the claim. He was the Red Duke, as in a red herring, a fraud.

  If it were not according to Salic law, the title and lands would have rightly belonged to Louis-Philippe, who had grown up in the castle as a child, since his mother was a Valois. Isabelle and Louis had hated him so much—this interloper who came to the castle as their guardian.

  So far, Hugh had kept his distance, and had spoken about setting up a match for her, but Isabelle decided she would go as far away as possible after the season. She would be of age by the end of June; she would take the small dowry her parents had been allowed to leave her, and she would make a life of her own. Perhaps she would be a governess, or a teacher. She would willingly choose a hard and humble life, as long as it was an honest one that took her far away from Hugh. It was better than being the prince’s mistress.

  “Are you ready?” Louis asked, and helped her into her cloak.

  She would miss Louis, she thought as she smiled and nodded at him. He would probably want her to stay, but he of all people would understand that she could not. It was too dangerous for her with Hugh around. She would never go back to Orleans, no matter what happened during the London Season.

  The opera was not the escape she had thought it would be. It was about a doomed love affair, and in the end the woman killed herself. Wonderful.

  “Did you like it?” Louis asked as they left their seats.

  “Not particularly,” she said. “But the music was nice.”

  Over at the front, there was a crowd around the prince, who was leaving the royal box. Leopold was in fine form, as usual—wherever he went there was a crowd of admirers hanging on to his every word. He did not look her way, and Isabelle was glad. He was nothing to her, nobody; she wanted nothing to do with him. Her skin crawled at the thought of him. She wanted to dunk herself in a hot bath, and scrub every inch of her skin, everywhere he had touched her.

  “Come on,” she said to Louis. “Let’s go, before we are caught in the rush.”

  She would stay for the ball and the rest of the season—for as long as Leo had rented the house for her—but afterward, she was going to leave this all behind.

  On the morning of the royal ball, Ronan woke up earlier than usual. She could not wait to see her dress, and ran to Whitney’s trunk, her fingers shaking in anticipation. But Vera was already kneeling by it, her hand on the latch. Ronan felt the urge to shove her aside, but squelched it. “Well, let’s see it, then,” she said.

  “Oh! Ronan, you’re here. I was just so excited!” Vera said, as she opened the lid.

  Ronan looked over her shoulder as Vera unwrapped the layers of tissue to reveal the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. It was a sheer white silk encrusted with moonstones, silvery gems woven into the very fabric of the dress. “Look, this is for your hair,” Vera said, breathless, holding up a slim tiara made of the same stone. “And matching earrings, too!”

  “Let’s hope it fits,” Ronan said, trying to act nonchalant. She left Vera to admire the dress and went to have her toast and tea, dressed for the morning in Whitney’s smart riding outfit. After the party at Lady Warwick’s, Ronan met Lady Constance at the park for a ride every morning.

  Ronan liked the rigor of the season; her mentor was amusing and knowledgeable, and the morning went pleasantly. While she could not help but feel a bit annoyed that Lady Constance had sent her to a lesser party during the hunting weekend, she did not mention it. After all, she had met some truly lovely gentlemen at the Warwick dinner. At the end of the evening, Archie and Perry had declared themselves her guides for the rest of the London Season.

  After an invigorating ride through the park, they repaired to a full breakfast back at the hotel. Afterward, they made a few social calls on “prominent ladies that you must know in order to secure invitations to the better dances this season.” The great ladies were polite enough to Ronan, but she had a feeling that they were assessing her chances against their own daughters’, and finding their daughters wanting. More than a few exclaimed at her beauty, and how she was sure to secure a proposal even before the ball had ended. “The pretty ones always do,” Lady Whitmore had said with a wrinkle of her nose. Ronan smiled and said nothing, but hoped that they were right. She had not traveled all this way to return to New York without a ring and a title.

  As the carriage ushered Ronan back to the hotel, Lady Constance explained that the presentation at court used to happen early in the afternoon, but now it had been folded into the ball in the evening. A twelve-course dinner would be served first, followed by the formal presentation of guests to the queen, after which the Princess Dauphine would dance the Lovers’ Waltz with Prince Leopold to formally announce and celebrate their engagement. A light supper would be presented at midnight, and afterward the dancing would go on until sunrise. Ronan could hardly wait.

  At long last, it was time to dress for the ball. Vera brought out the dress, carrying it as if it were a valuable and precious gem, as if she were cradling her firstborn.

  Ronan was a little concerned; she was a bit more statuesque than Whitney, who was built a little smaller. But there was no need to worry. The moment she touched the fabric, the dress and the jewels arranged themselves on h
er as if they were made for her alone. The dress glowed with silvery moonlight, and with her fair coloring and platinum hair, she possessed a striking similarity to the long-lost woodland sylphs who were said to have left this earth.

  “You look…” Vera had no words.

  Ronan felt chills all over her body as she stared at the dress in the mirror. She had never seen herself look more beautiful. It was as if all her dreams were coming true in one moment. Surely, with this dress, she would be able to melt the heart of any lord of her choosing. Vera handed her the ostrich-feathered fan, helped her draw on the lace gloves, and knelt to slip her feet into the sparkling kidskin slippers. Not long after, the butler announced that the Lords Stewart and Fairfax had arrived to escort her to the party.

  When she appeared in the lobby, Perry gave her a long wolf-whistle.

  “Need a lift, gorgeous? Told you we were your fairy godfathers,” he said. “My, my, the princess is going to face some stiff competition with you in that.”

  “I only have one question,” Archie said, after kissing Ronan on both cheeks.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think it would look better on me?”

  “Shut up, queen. Let’s go see the queen,” Perry said.

  The royal ball was held in the Crystal Palace, a cathedral of glass and steel—a steel skeleton with glass panels. It had originally been built in 1845 for the Annual Exhibition of Scientific Inventions, but that yearly ritual had ceased years ago, by order of the Merlin. Now it was only maintained for the express purpose of hosting this annual event, after the ballroom at St. James had been deemed too small to fit all the courtiers and guests.

  A huge, cheering crowd of commoners lined the circular streets leading up to the palace, waiting to catch a glimpse of sparkle and glamour. The open-air carriage ferried the happy trio to the entrance, where gaily-dressed guests—aristocrats, royals and prominent friends of the empire—disembarked from a line of coaches and hansoms. Ronan was awed by the size, the grandeur. The great hall loomed over the park, over the trees. Its barrel vault stretched a dozen stories into the sky, and the long axis of the ballroom ran nearly a half mile in length.

  Through the entry, beneath the great barrel vault, liveried servants stood in long lines, waiting to take coats, hats and canes, or offering sparkling drinks and platters heaped high with delicacies. Velvet drapes and richly tufted rugs decorated the interior. Oil lamps hung at intervals were akin to stars flickering in the sky. Music echoed from every direction. The long axis stretched from the left to the right, ending with the podium where the queen sat with her court.

  Ronan tried to breathe deeply, having found the oxygen was thin at such great heights. She was glad to have the two boys with her, who made fun of everything and cut it all down to size, although she could tell that they too were impressed and awed by the spectacle inside.

  Fountains bubbled not with water, but pink clouds. Dancers resembling sculptures, their faces chalk-white, pranced like living marble creatures. The Crystal Palace was too large for a single band of musicians to fill the hall, and so a dozen or more bands were assigned to the task, playing the same tune in a glorious symphony. The room was alive with half-heard conversations, trumpets and strings.

  Everyone was so beautiful. Ronan admired a few girls who were laughing and talking in a huge circle; they were each more beautiful than the last, and they had a ring of admirers around them. “Ah, the Montrose girls, the ducal daughters,” Archie said. “Pretty, aren’t they?”

  “Loud,” Perry dismissed.

  They walked toward the dinner setting on one side of the hall.

  “A lot more magic this year,” Perry said, switching the place cards at the table so they could sit together. He did it so deftly, Ronan was certain he had done this many times before. She would have been too afraid to meddle with a seating arrangement, but it was clear Perry had no problem with it.

  “Princess is getting married,” Archie reminded him.

  “No more war.” Perry nodded.

  “Come on, let’s find the champagne,” Archie decided.

  Ronan followed their lead, still feeling dizzy, although she couldn’t help but notice the many admiring glances thrown her way. Their table was one of the farthest from the queen’s table at dinner, but it did not matter. She would have her two minutes with the queen when she was presented. Anything more and she would probably have fainted from happiness.

  The queen was seated on a throne on the podium. She was flanked by her Merlin and a slew of attendants: white-robed sisters from the Order, and courtiers in their finest plumage. Ronan had only seen photographs of the queen, and was struck by how they did not do Her Majesty justice. The queen had an otherworldly beauty; her skin was the color of pure alabaster, her red hair fiery and thick. Her gown, a vibrant emerald color, was deep and rich. The crown on her head was enormous, and studded with the largest emeralds and sapphires (green for France, blue for England) Ronan had ever seen. The Merlin was frightening: a somber man in black, with a face like a mask.

  “Ronan Elizabeth Astor, of New York,” the herald announced.

  Ronan stepped in front of the throne and curtsied to the floor, just as she had practiced, her head almost brushing Her Majesty’s feet.

  “Rise, child,” the queen nodded. “What a pretty dress. Moonstones have always been my favorite.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Ronan held up the edges of her gown tightly. Slowly, as she had practiced, she walked backward, never taking her eyes off the queen.

  “Bravo,” Perry said when it was done and she was back in their circle. She was trembling from the roots of her fair hair to her fingertips.

  “Americans tend to overdo it, don’t you think?” a voice said. “Look at that one, she looks like a bank exploded and rained diamonds.”

  Ronan stopped and turned around to see a beautiful French girl regarding her with a sullen frown. The girl’s dress was understated and elegant, a simple dress of the palest pink; no waist or corset was discernible, as it was cut in the daring new loose style, and she wore her dark hair in a low chignon. She was exquisite and perfect and tiny, and Ronan felt like a lumbering American giant next to her.

  “Now, now, Isabelle. Jealousy doesn’t flatter you,” the boy beside the French girl said. He was dark-haired and strikingly handsome, his hair falling into his bright blue eyes. There was something familiar about him, but Ronan could not place him until he winked—and then—

  “You!” Ronan gasped. It was him—Heath—the fighter from the boat—looking even more devastatingly, knee-tremblingly, breath-caught-in-throat-handsome than he did when she had last seen him. A handsome devil. What was he doing at the royal ball? He looked dashing in a red coat with a golden sash and epaulets, a ceremonial saber on his hip. Why, he looked every inch a…but she couldn’t form the word. She blushed to think of their intimate moments together—the way they had lain across that billiards table…“Heath!”

  The boy smiled. “Cathy.”

  Isabelle—the French girl who had made the nasty comment about her dress—curled her lip. “You two know each other?”

  The boy raised his glass to Ronan. “You could say that.” His bright blue eyes danced with mirth.

  “We’ve met,” she said faintly.

  “Why am I not surprised,” Isabelle said, her voice dripping acid. “Wolf has probably ‘met’ every girl from here to New York.” She unleashed her fan with a snap and walked off without saying good-bye. What a rude little wench, Ronan thought. What had she called him—the boy from the boat? Wolf? Was that his name? What kind of a name was that? Wolf? My family herds sheep, he had told her.…

  She stared at him, alarmed. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of his champagne. “My brother’s getting married. I have to be here.”

  “Your brother…?”

  He cocked his head to the front of the room, where the herald was about to introduce the royal couple. He could
n’t mean…? Who was his brother?

  When she turned back to him, to this Wolf, he was gone.

  Ronan felt her heart beating painfully. She thought she might have to sit down. With relief she again found Perry and Archie, who had wandered off in search of more drinks. They were in a corner, guzzling champagne and cutting people down to size while cutting a dashing figure in their tails and top hats. Archie was nuzzling Perry’s shoulder. “There she is, the most beautiful girl in the room.” Perry smiled. “Enjoying yourself, darling?”

  “Do you know everyone here?” she asked.

  “Pretty much,” Perry said. “We do, don’t we, Arch?”

  Ronan raised her fan so that no one could see her ask, “Who’s he, then?” Her eyes followed the dashing, dark-haired boy in the red coat and gold sash across the room.

  “Oh, him?” Archie said. “Congratulations, you have great taste, darling.”

  “He’s yummy,” Perry agreed. “I’d let him conquer me any time.”

  “But who is he?” she hissed. She almost wanted to cry. He was just the guy on the boat. Some fighter. He was nobody. He was an impostor! He didn’t belong here. All those hours studying Debrett’s! And she had been unable to see past the obvious—that he had never been “kicked out” of the promenade deck; that he was only pretending to be second-class. His hobbies: good wine and champagne. Those shiny gold cuff links. She felt faint as she realized, her grand rooms—the mixed-up tickets—he must have put them in her handbag. Which meant he knew her plight, and it was he who had come to her rescue. Which meant those first-class rooms were his, and that he was rich, then. Very rich…but who was he? “Please tell me, I beg of you,” she said, to her new friends. “Tell me who he is.”

  Archie stared at her. “You really don’t know?”

  Ronan shook her head so vigorously that the moonstones in her ears were in danger of falling out.

  “That’s the prince, you silly girl,” Perry said, putting her out of her misery—or more correctly, adding to it.