The Telgard ambassador. Tabitha’s heart skipped a beat, and that must have shown on her face, because her father nodded in satisfaction. “I thought that would get your attention. The ambassador is coming here to meet you, and then he will go to Telgardia to make the recommendation personally.”
Tabitha nodded eagerly. Her father had sent his letter to the Telgard ambassador when Tabitha had turned thirteen. She had been waiting for over two months, but now, today, it was finally happening. She was going to be a princess. She was going to be a queen, the queen of the largest of all the L’Abbanist kingdoms! “When will the ambassador be here?” she asked.
“In a few weeks. Enough time to learn some of the language, if you work hard.”
“But Father, I can’t possibly learn a new language if I am in voice training so much. Master Manay is very demanding.”
Her father gave her a look that told her he knew what she was doing, but he said, “You may reduce your singing lessons to two afternoons each week for the time being. I will advise Master Manay. It might help relieve his frustration with you.”
“His frustration?”
“In any case, your technique must not become sloppy, for you will be singing for the ambassador.”
“My technique has never been sloppy!”
“And, of course, all your other studies must continue.”
Tabitha pursed her lips and changed the subject. “Who will be teaching me Telgardian?”
“Lord Pironn Louard. I am sure you remember him. He came to the funeral with his daughter. His wife was a Telgard, and he is fluent.”
Louard. She did not remember, and it seemed very odd that she would not have taken note of a nobleman at Nan’s funeral. Tabitha’s nanny was well-known and well-loved, but she was only a servant.
“Remember?” He had seen her confusion. “It was not even a year ago. You and his daughter were together all the time.”
“Oh, that funeral.” Some ancient lord, a vassal of her father’s, had died last summer, and hundreds of her father’s vassals and other nobles had flooded the castle to pay their respects. The girl who had taught some Telgard words to Tabitha and her friends was named Marjorie.
“We will also have your portrait painted for the ambassador to take to Telgardia. Stop frowning at me. I have commissioned a different artist this time, and according to people who know, his work is very good. Your first sitting with him is tomorrow.”
“I want Jenevive to do it.”
“Lady Jenevive is not an accomplished artist.”
She tried to argue, because Jenevive’s sketches of her were much better than any of those drawn by any “accomplished” artist, including Jenevive’s own teacher, but her father talked over her. “Do you realize how important it is that the ambassador finds you charming?”
“Well, of course, Father.” The question was insulting. She would have to be extremely stupid to not realize how important this was. This was her entire life.
“This betrothal is very important to our family.”
“Yes, Father.” She knew why. Lord Othot could not be allowed to inherit the Betaul lands and fleet. He was not worthy of them.
“That is why I am not going to sea this year. I need to oversee this personally, much more so than I need to look over my captains’ shoulders. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Father.” She preferred it when he was home anyway. The servants got lazy when he wasn’t here.
He was still looking at her as if she did not understand something. “And you realize that King Roupert has explicitly encouraged me to offer your hand to King Raimund’s son, even if the Khenroxans object?”
“Yes, Father.” She knew that the Khenroxans would object. She was a prize, one not being offered to their crown prince. Her family was the oldest in Thendalia, the guardian of its shores and the steward of its mines. The Telgards would certainly object if the situation were reversed.
Because he seemed to be waiting for some kind of answer from her, she sat up straighter and strove for a serious tone. “I understand perfectly, Father. I will not fail you.”
“Good,” he said, just as seriously, though he seemed to almost be smiling. “You may now be excused.”
She dipped a curtsey, then on impulse did something she had not done in a long time. She came around to his side of the table and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Father.” She was excited, and he had to be excited too, since he had been planning this for years. He gave her a warm smile that few people ever saw, and he patted her arm.
As she made her way to her chambers, she kept a dignified pace, but she wanted to run like a little boy, and not just to get through the servants’ dark corridors as fast as possible. She was going to be a princess! She finally got upstairs, and once she shut the door to her sitting room, only the presence of the chambermaid scrubbing the hearth kept her from shouting out the news to Pamela and Beatris as they lifted their dark heads from their embroidery. Not that there was any reason for the maids not to know, but Tabitha wanted to treat it like a delicious secret.
“What?” Pamela asked, her needle held in the air, gleaming in the lamplight. Beatris also stopped to stare, and Tabitha went over to them and sat down on Jenevive’s cot. She arranged her skirts around her and casually picked up Jenevive’s embroidery hoop. Jenevive herself was still at her sketching lesson, which meant that Tabitha would get to tell the good news twice.
“Nothing,” she whispered, pretending to inspect the tiny stitches.
“Tell us,” Pamela whispered, dropping her embroidery on her cot and kneeling at Tabitha’s feet, her brown eyes as wide as her cheeks.
“Why are we whispering?” Beatris whispered as she moved from her cot to Pamela’s and got tangled in embroidery floss.
“What happened?” Pamela whispered with all the force of a shout.
“Well,” Tabitha murmured, still inspecting Jenevive’s wobbly stitching, “first of all, I only have to take lessons from Master Manay twice a week from now on.”
The two cousins glanced at each other with the same puzzled look, and Beatris said, “Well, you keep saying how harsh he is.”
“Why only twice a week?” Pamela asked, which gave Tabitha the perfect opening.
“Because I will also be taking language lessons.” She put down the embroidery as they waited breathlessly. Finally she whispered, “Telgardian.”
Pamela’s squeal made the maid turn her head, and all three of them clamped their hands over their mouths and giggled. “What did Sister Tilde tell you?” Pamela whispered.
“It was my father who told me about it, silly.” The holy sister who was playing the part of their governess would not be informed of anything so important before Tabitha herself was. “The ambassador will come to meet me, and then he will carry my portrait to Telgardia and give the Telgard king my father’s letter. Then the king will probably want to meet me himself—”
“And the prince will too,” Pamela giggled.
“And if everyone can agree on the terms, then …” Tabitha trailed off with a smile, and Pamela stifled another squeal while Beatris softly clapped her hands. She looked genuinely happy, which was a surprise. Tabitha knew that Beatris had to be jealous, since she did not have the bloodline or the beauty to be a proper match for a prince, especially a foreign one. And unlike Pamela, Beatris sometimes got snide about things she could not have.
“This is fantastic,” Pamela continued to softly gush, bouncing up and down on her heels like a child. “Can I learn Telgardian too? Who will be your teacher?”
“It will be Marjorie’s father, Lord Louard.”
“Oh, yes, I remember Marjorie, she is so very sweet. Will she be coming too?”
“I will tell my father that she should.”
“Does it bother you?” Beatris asked suddenly. “The prince’s age, I mean. He is actually a few months younger than you are, remember?”
Tabitha was not fooled by the thoughtful look on Beatris’s face. “No, it does not b
other me,” she whispered back, determined that Beatris would not ruin this for her.
“But girls mature so much faster than boys,” Beatris pointed out.
“The wedding would not be until we are both fifteen,” Tabitha whispered, trying to stay calm. “We will both be mature then.”
“And who wants an old husband anyway?” Pamela put in. “Like that horrible Lord Othot. I am so glad you don’t have to marry him.”
“Not half as glad as I am,” Tabitha murmured. Almost anyone would be better than Lord Othot. It was a good thing that her father despised him as much as she did.
“He is not old, Pamela,” Beatris murmured, rolling her eyes. “He is thirty. Barely older than your Lord Daniel.”
Tabitha fumed, because the mention of Lord Daniel was sure to reroute the conversation. Sure enough, Pamela blushed furiously and hissed, “He is not my Lord Daniel. I have told you a hundred times, he is just my father’s friend.”
“To whom you have been all but promised!” Beatris held her embroidery hoop over Pamela’s head, and the white fabric fell over her brown hair like a bridal veil.
Pamela swatted it away. “Stop it!”
“If you keep this up,” Tabitha whispered to Beatris, “we will not know if you are just poking fun or truly jealous.”
Beatris’s smile grew overly sweet. “Well, who would not be jealous? Lord Daniel has a huge manor house and a handsome face, and your own lord father has a very high opinion of him.”
“I am sure my father does not care about Lord Daniel’s handsome face.”
“No one does,” Pamela declared, still whispering. “It’s the prince’s handsome face that we are talking about. He is handsome, is not he? Have you heard?”
“I don’t know what he looks like,” Tabitha admitted, “but of course his looks should not matter, as long as he is a true gentleman.”
“Is that a fact?” Beatris arched her eyebrows. “You are saying that it would not matter to you if he is cross-eyed and too fat to sit a horse?”
She is not going to ruin this! “As long as he is a true gentleman,” Tabitha repeated stiffly.
“Right,” Beatris snorted, picking up her embroidery hoop from the floor.
“Shut your mouth.” Her voice was rising.”
“No fighting,” Pamela pleaded, still whispering. “Please, not today. This is so exciting! Oh, Tabitha, Nan would have been so proud. I wish she was here.”
“Yes. I miss her even more.”
“Promise me you will take me with you to Telgardia for the wedding. Promise!”
“Of course I will take you,” Tabitha promised her, emphasizing you to leave Beatris out. “I will need a friend to go with me. And remember, the prince has a younger brother. Maybe you could marry him!”
“Oh! Oh, no, it would not be allowed. My father is only a count.”
This was true, but the suggestion of Pamela marrying a prince was sure to bother Beatris. “You never know,” Tabitha teased. “The longer we are there, the more everyone will like you.”
“We would not have to stay there all the time, though, would we?” That was just like Pamela, to be so excited about something one moment and so anxious about it the next. “We would come home sometimes?”
“Oh, yes. Your lady mother would never forgive me if I stole you away for good.”
“And neither would Lord Daniel,” Beatris murmured with a little smile.
Pamela went red again, and Tabitha glared at Beatris. Then the door opened and Jenevive came into the room with Sister Tilde. It seemed silly now to keep whispering, so Tabitha officially got to tell everyone in the room what her father had told her, and to bask in the glow of their excitement.
After weeks and weeks and weeks, so long that Tabitha could barely keep from asking about it every hour of every day, the portrait was finally ready. Master Emon had set it up in the green receiving room, and now, sweating more than usual, he lifted the white cloth from the easel to show it to Tabitha and her father.
The portrait was small, since the Telgard ambassador was to take it with him to Telgardia, and Tabitha had to lean forward to inspect it. When she did, she could not hold back a gasp of horror. It made her look like a baby! Her face was not that round, and the neckline of the gown she had chosen had not been all the way up to her chin! Her hair was golden, not that yellow-white color, and there was not even a hint of a smile on her lips, even though Master Emon had sketched her smiling again and again. She could not let her prince see this! She should have insisted that Jenevive do it. No other artist in the entire world could paint a true likeness of her.
She looked up at her father, expecting to see outrage as great as her own. Instead, he was nodding! “Father!” she cried, and when he turned to her, she tilted her head at the portrait. “That does not look like me!”
He and Master Emon both stared at her, at the portrait, back at her. Her father then called to the chambermaid waiting at the door: “Lise? A mirror.” Master Emon looked relieved, and Tabitha wanted to scream at him.
Lise returned with Tabitha’s handheld mirror and held it up beside the portrait. Other curious servants had followed her, and they hovered back as Tabitha gave the mirror and the portrait each good, long looks. “See?” She turned back to her father and Master Emon. “It looks even worse when I see myself next to it. That is not me.”
“Yes it is,” her father said dryly. “He even captured your stubbornness.”
“Father!” He could not possibly mean that! “Please have him paint another one!”
“There is no time,” her father said. “The ambassador is due any day now.”
“Please, Father! The ambassador might be late. There might be time. Please!”
Her father sighed heavily, then looked at Master Emon. “See what you can do.”
“Yes, your Grace. But, your Grace …”
“If the ambassador arrives before you have finished another one, then we will use this one. I think it’s a very good likeness.”
“Thank you, your Grace.”
Tabitha seethed, holding her mouth and fists closed. Master Emon would not do another one, she knew it. He was lazy, and besides, he would not be paid for a second portrait. But she could not let anyone see this. It was a travesty. It was not her!
She saw Master Emon’s brushes standing in a cup near the easel. On an impulse she grabbed one, snatched up the little portrait, and punched the brush’s wooden handle through the canvas once, twice, three times. She dropped the portrait and the brush on the carpet and turned back to her father.
Her father, Master Emon, Lise, and all the servants wore faces so shocked they were funny, and she nearly giggled, but then her father’s eyes narrowed at her.
Oh, no. She looked down at the floor and bit her lip. When her father spoke, it was very softly, but they all heard him: “Everyone out.”
Master Emon and all the servants hurried for the door leading to the gallery, and a guardsman closed it after them. When it was quiet again, Tabitha said, “Forgive me, Father. I did not mean to.”
“You did mean to, and there is no excuse.” His arm moved, and she took half a step back. He had never hit her before, but she knew he had hit guardsmen and servants before, and the look in his eyes was frightening. But he was only leaning down to pick up the torn portrait. He held it out to her. “Take it.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You will take it, and you will have it hung up in your bedchamber, exactly as it is, until I tell you that it can come down.”
Reluctantly Tabitha allowed him to put the torn canvas and splintered wood into her hand. “Forgive me,” she said again.
“Do you want the Telgard ambassador to report to his king that you are a willful, nasty brat who can’t control herself?”
“But Father, I would never act that way in front of anyone who mattered!”
“You will never act that way in front of anyone! Do you think our servants are blind and deaf? Do you think they don’t
talk to other servants, and that those servants don’t talk to their masters? We will be very lucky if this infantile tantrum of yours does not make it to the ambassador’s ear.”
“If it does, he will not believe it,” Tabitha said, hoping to make it true. “I will be so charming and ladylike that he will never believe anything bad about me. I promise, Father.”
She had hoped this would placate him, but he was still angry, still looking at her under darkly lowered brows, his arms folded over his chest. “This is important, Tabitha. There is much at stake in this betrothal. You need to take it more seriously than you have ever taken anything in your life.”
“Yes, Father. Please forgive me. I will never do anything like that again. I promise.” She looked up at him with wide, sad eyes. “Please don’t be angry.”
As she had hoped, his shoulders relaxed a little, and his expression softened. “I wish we had not lost Nan,” he murmured. “You still need her.”
“I miss her,” Tabitha said, before realizing that what he had really said was that she was too young to be without a nanny. “But no one could ever replace her.”
“Someone will,” her father growled. “Clearly I should spend more time looking for a permanent governess.”
Tabitha wanted to protest, because she liked not having a permanent governess. The holy sisters were so easy to fool and avoid. “But Nan was so devoted to me,” she said finally, weakly, echoing sentiments she had heard at the funeral.
“As your mother wished.” As usual when he mentioned her dead mother, he winced a little. “And both of them would have been horrified at what you just did.” He gestured to the ruined portrait. “Go and put that in your bedchamber. Now.”
“Yes, Father.” She dipped a curtsey to him, then hurried to the door. She shut it behind her so that he would not see her going downstairs, to the kitchen, to throw the portrait into the fire.
At the bottom of the stairway, however, she saw the door to the privy closet, and had a truly inspired thought. She slipped inside, covered her nose and mouth against the smell, and dropped the portrait down the hole. Further inspired, she gathered up her skirts and made water, and she used a lot of tipi leaves when she cleaned up. The window near the ceiling let in enough light for her to look down to the middens, and she could see no sign of the torn canvas. Good. Her father seldom went into her chambers, so he would never know the portrait was not there.
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