by Aya Ling
Because it’s so damn stifling in my Gothic costume, I start to fan myself. If the MPs notice me, then so be it.
Edward appears in a formal black suit and trousers, carrying a scroll tied with a red ribbon. He strides to the throne and waits for the members to quiet down. His steadfast gaze and straight posture remind me that although Athelia is a constitutional monarchy, he still carries himself with this majestic, commanding air. Most of the members cease their chatter and sit in silence, their gaze fixed upon the prince. It’s kind of a double standard for me, because while I don’t hesitate to let Edward know I will never behave like a spineless subject, I find it amusing that the MPs are subdued in his presence.
After Edward presents an opening speech, which sounds just like a boring recital, the Prime Minister goes up to the podium and gives an annual report from various departments and agencies. He is a dumpy man wearing a wig—the long, fake, white kind worn by judges in civil court. It’s a pity Edward doesn’t have to wear a wig, because I’d certainly die of laughter. Then several MPs come forth to deliver local and national presentations of papers, all of which sound extremely dry and tedious.
Just when I’m in danger of falling asleep, the Prime Minister adjusts his glasses and reads from a scroll.
“Now let us commence the Third Reading of the eight-hour bill. For those who wish to express an opinion, will you please raise your hand?”
I sit up and lean forward in my chair, my heart pounding. Edward had told me that with a landslide victory in the Second Reading, plus the growing attention from the public and continued reports from investigators and novelists, it is hardly probable that the Third Reading will be rejected. Still, it doesn’t mean that all members will cheerfully pass the bill without further comment. Several MPs are invested in the cotton trade, which is considered one of the largest industries of Athelia.
A man raises his hand and is granted permission to speak. He is quite passionate about the bill, stating that eight hours is still too much that any child can bear. He cites evidence from a medical report written by Dr. Jensen, whom I remember is Henry’s mentor.
“I would even go further and propose that the working hours should be reduced to half a day in the morning, which leaves the afternoon free for mandatory education.”
I could hug him, if it weren’t that I was supposed to stay out of sight.
Another man stands up and expresses an opposing opinion. He says that with the rapid advancement of technology, Athelia has transformed into the most powerful nation in the world. The country will fall behind if the supply cannot keep up with demand. While he acknowledges that there are problems with the child workers, he is confident that as long as the children are carefully monitored and no violence is inflicted upon them, there is no reason why the factories cannot continue as before.
Bullshit. I wonder if he has ever been inside a factory himself.
The debate continues for a while, but much to my disappointment, it looks like the hours cannot be further reduced. Most of the members, while willing to concede that it’s harmful for children to work long hours, are also unwilling to cut down the hours from twelve to four. Edward wasn’t kidding when he told me that the parliament is reluctant to drastic change.
Edward puts up his hand, causing everyone to stop squabbling right away. “I propose amendments to go with the bill,” he says, instead of arguing for further reduction of the hours. “Inspectors must be appointed to ensure that the working conditions are at least tolerable, and heavy fines must be enforced should the factory owners fail to comply with the rules.”
“Given the sheer number of factories in the nation, where would the salaries for those inspectors come from?” someone asks rather nastily. “You can hardly believe that our coffers are bottomless!”
“Then we can raise the taxes on the factory managers.” Edward’s voice is as cool as the early morning air. He has never used the same tone with me, however. Sometimes I wonder if I should appreciate how neatly he manages to separate his public image (cold, distant, aloof) from private (caring, teasing, affectionate). “After all, it is their responsibility to ensure the safety of their own employees.”
An image of Andrew McVean flashes in my mind. I remember how he acted like a complete jerk when I told him about Jimmy’s death. Before I know it, I am on my feet.
Because it is so quiet in the room, when I stand up and my chair makes a horrible scraping noise, everyone is staring at me. Most of them, who aren’t expecting my presence, stare at me in utter amazement.
I should duck under the balustrade and pretend I was a ghost and that they were merely hallucinating. But Edward had told me that Parliament will not be in session until next year, so I won’t be able to voice my opinion until several months later. And I still can’t forget Jimmy’s blood-soaked pillow, as well as Mrs. Thatcher and Elle weeping silently in that dark, gloomy room. Like their future is doomed. Even if I become a laughingstock, I at least need to let my voice be heard.
“I . . . I’m terribly sorry . . .” I stammer, tightening my hands over the folds of my dress to keep myself steady. I’m on the second floor, so I have to raise my voice, and because they are so shocked into silence, most people seem to be able to hear me. “But I thought if you don’t mind . . . I have a few suggestions to make.”
My voice grows stronger. It’s easier when I’m not looking at their faces. I stare straight ahead and ignore any negative thoughts of what might happen or what consequences there could be from my speaking out.
“We need compensation. Because the environment is so dangerous, I highly recommend that compensation be offered to all children who are seriously injured or . . . deceased. And they must have healthcare. The employer should invest in health insurance so they will be able to afford the medical bills. Oh, and sick leave. If they cannot come to work because they are ill, there should be some form of payment . . .”
“Thank you, Lady Katriona.” Edward cuts me off. His voice is curt, clipped, and he doesn’t look in my direction. “My apologies, everyone, but my fiancée is merely reminding me what I have forgotten to mention. If you would also take what she has told us into account . . .”
“That would not be a problem,” the Prime Minister says, obviously relieved that Edward had intervened. “Might I ask you to elaborate, Your Highness?”
Edward explains to them in further detail what I had told him about our modern rules. The other MPs start to offer their opinions, seeming to have forgotten my presence completely.
I sink back into my chair and wipe cold sweat from my brow. Part of me is irritated that Edward had simply used my ideas as his own, but part of me is also grateful that he had come to my aid. The MPs could have forcefully ejected me from the room.
6
The cool autumn air drifts in through the window, cooling my cheeks and clearing my head, which is kind of woolly from studying the heavy leather-bound book on my table. I thought I was done when we finished the book on royal etiquette, but Madame Dubois revealed to me that it is in fact only the first book in the series. Great.
I yawn and stretch my arms over my head, and wince when my corset strains against my ribs. Since my outburst in the parliament, Madame Dubois forbade me to go out, including those “lessons in horticulture” in Edward’s garden. Needless to say, she was simply furious with me. Her husband is one of the MPs, so she was among the first to learn of my idiotic behavior. Her rage erupted like a volcano, her words spilling like molten lava, burning through my mind.
“Do you realize what you have done, you immature, headstrong girl? I already specifically told you that you cannot do as you please. What possessed you to go to the king and beg him for permission for you to enter Parliament? Women have no business in political affairs, as I have drilled into your head countless times. And now you have to go and interrupt the session when the men were discussing important matters! Have you considered how ashamed His Highness would be? Have you considered how the king might feel about y
our taking advantage of his generous offer and squandering it? Honestly, I simply cannot understand why His Highness chose you as his bride. Athelia has never seen a worse princess than you.”
I don’t even feel like defending myself. I’m no longer the younger, less attractive, socially inept sister in the Bradshaw household. It wouldn’t matter so much if I only had myself to blame, but now my stupid impetuosity will reflect badly on the king and Edward.
Edward has been surprisingly lenient, but it doesn’t make me feel much better. “Kat, don’t take it to heart. I admit that it was thoughtless to shout out in the middle of the session, but since it has already happened, what matters more is that you have repented and are doing penitence. Besides, if a MP is more concerned about your manners than your ideas, which are excellent, then it does not speak highly of his character. I would not worry about such a man’s opinion.”
I wish he had shown more displeasure. I know how much criticism he had to deal with since I moved into the palace, and I feel like punching myself for letting him defend me so many times. No matter how much I try, my behavior will never be compatible for a conventional princess. Of course, my unusual character is precisely why Edward loves me, but unfortunately, most people at court don’t share the same perspective.
I sigh and turn the page, trying to memorize how to greet ambassadors in seven different languages.
“Miss Elle has requested a meeting with you.” Amelie pokes her head in. “Miss Poppy is with her.”
“They have come together?” I say, surprised. Elle is usually busy with her job and taking care of her family, and Poppy is, well, pregnant. It isn’t frequent that they can visit me, not to mention both. “But Madame Dubois might not . . .”
“I’ll keep watch for Madame Dubois. They said it won’t take long.”
I giggle. “Oh, Amelie, I love you.”
“Save that confession for His Highness.”
Elle enters, neatly dressed in a simple white frock, looking sweet and angelic as usual. She hasn’t completely lost her meekness though, from the hesitant way she steps through the door. Poppy also seems a bit nervous. But once she sees me, a huge grin breaks over her face and it feels like every moment that we have a girl talk over hot chocolate.
“Sit down, both of you.” I wave them to a sofa and call for a maid to bring refreshments. “Poppy, are there any foods you should avoid while you’re pregnant? Actually, how did Mr. Davenport let you come?”
“I haven’t thrown up these days, and it’s so awfully boring in the house.” Poppy grins. “So when Elle told me that she’s coming to see you, I begged Jonathan to allow me this one time. He trusts that Elle will take excellent care of me.”
“How are you doing, Kat?” Elle says, looking concerned. “From what Henry told me, it seems that you are having a hard time learning to be a princess.”
“Oh, I’m all right. Just a lot to learn, that’s all.” I gesture toward the heavy volume that Madame Dubois made me read. I love books, but textbooks are an exception.
A frown mars Elle’s pretty features. “Lady Petunia also insisted I study the very same book. It’s awfully difficult when I can barely read and write.”
I stare at her. “But how did you work at Lady Bradshaw’s if you didn’t know how to read?”
“I can handle simple phrases and names,” she says simply. “But this is a whole book, and it uses so many big words. I’ve been asking Cousin Poppy to help me.”
I understand. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that half of my classmates back in high school won’t be able to read the stuff I’ve been forced to consume. The books in Athelia, unsurprisingly, are written in an old-fashioned style reminiscent of Dickens or Austen.
“That’s the reason why we’ve come to see you.” Poppy says, popping the last bit of a blueberry muffin in her mouth. She has finished an entire plate of muffins in a short while. I suppose it’s because her baby is hungry.
I didn’t understand. Surely she can’t expect me to form a study group.
“Because of my sudden good fortune, I have been able to quit my job at the palace,” Elle says, smiling. “I could focus on other things. So I plan to use a portion of my inheritance to fund the opening of a school for girls.”
“For all girls, regardless of their status,” Poppy adds excitedly. “So girls like me will be able to learn useful subjects, not just how to pour tea and walk backwards with a train.”
“That sounds like an awesome—I mean, wonderful—idea,” I say.
“Kat,” Elle clasps her hands together and looks at me in earnest. “I know you have been really busy, but could you spare a few hours to speak for us?”
“What do you mean?”
Elle explains. She has found an old building in the city center, not far from the Royal Institute where Henry attends his medical lectures, which can be converted into a new school building. But to do that, as well as finding teachers and advertising for pupils, it’s going to be a long, arduous task.
“I thought . . . if you could give a speech for those who are rich and powerful, such as the Prime Minister, we might gain more sponsors to establish the school.”
Yeah, right. After the session, I heard Edward apologizing to the Prime Minister, who called me brash, naïve, and outrageous. I can still remember how he looked—his lips pinched together and his voice strained.
“I can’t.” my answer comes out faster than I expected. “I’m sorry, but I doubt they would listen to me, especially after the way I interrupted the parliament.”
“Henry told me about it.” Elle nods. “You might have broken the protocol, but your ideas are sound. He said that Parliament would benefit more from your ideas. Which is why they need an educated woman like you to speak on behalf of our school.”
“Besides, you’re the princess.” Poppy’s eyes are shining. “There’s no one better than you, Kat, to show your support for us. You have the power to convince others.”
“I . . . let me think about it.”
I am sympathetic towards Elle and Poppy. I really want to help them with the school. But given my recent record in the parliament, I doubt anyone would want to listen to me. And what would they say to Edward if I came out and expressed these radical ideas? Unlike child labor, I doubt girls’ education could rouse the same support from the upper-class, much less the lower-class.
Not to mention that I have to leave Athelia eventually.
7
“We have received a message from Philip,” the king says, passing a long, cream-colored envelope to Edward. “It is addressed to you.”
“Which Philip?” I whisper to Edward. There are actually six or seven people named Philip among Edward’s relatives. The royal family is pretty unimaginative when it comes to names.
“My eldest cousin. Currently the Duke of Northport.” Edward scans the letter. “He is inviting Kat and me to his country estate.”
“Why now?” the queen says. “We have sent him an invitation for the day of your official engagement.”
“He fell off his horse and broke his leg and therefore cannot attend. He has, however, expressed a great desire to see Kat.”
I halt in the middle of spreading butter on bread. Engagement. Ever since Edward told me that the wedding would be held in nine months, I knew that the engagement would come sooner or later. Still, it doesn’t mean that I’m mentally prepared for it.
I’m having breakfast with the royal family—a ritual I dreaded at first but gradually came to enjoy. No matter how busy we may be, the king insists on dining together as a family. Sometimes Parliament and social functions interfere, but generally, breakfast is one meal we can share.
“Katriona looks like she has swallowed an egg whole,” the king says, a questioning look in his eyes. “Have you anything to suggest about the engagement?”
“Um . . .” I set down the butter knife. At first I consider saying no, but then I feel I should know what I’m getting into. “Pardon me, but I’ve never been engag
ed before, so what should I be prepared for?”
The king and queen exchange benevolent smiles. Edward gives my hand a quick squeeze under the table.
“According to the Royal Marriage Act,” the king says, “I will first announce to the privy council my formal approval of your marriage to my son. Then we will have a small lunch gathering in the Red Room, where the exchange of gifts will take place. Each of you will give a speech.”
“Gifts?” I thought only the couple received gifts. No one said anything about an exchange.
“Traditionally, the groom will present a ring,” the queen says. “But it is not required for the bride, although if you wish, you may certainly do so.”
Edward whispers in my ear. “Don’t worry about it.”
I decide to get him something anyway. I have my own private income from the proceeds of writing the article on factory children. The article sold thousands of copies, but I’ve donated most of it to charities since I don’t lack anything in the palace. I’ll see what I can get with the remaining money.
The king and queen talk on about what we should wear on the engagement day, who to invite for the dinner and dance in the evening, and how many official photos should be taken . . . details that I take in but don’t dwell on.
It’s happening. Me, officially becoming a princess: Princess of Athelia.
Yeah, right. It’s a role I wish I could play, but circumstances prevent me from making it permanent. No matter how much I want to stay, I can’t.
I finish my bread with the help of a full glass of milk. Then I ask to be excused, curtsy, and head toward my room.
