As I made my way to the gate, Mrs. Biddlesworth was out in her garden as usual, sprinkling water on her tidy borders of alyssum. I called out cheerfully, “Good afternoon, Mrs. B.”
She stopped watering to glare at me, her moon face framed beneath a straw bonnet. Instead of returning my greeting, she pointed at something beyond me and demanded, “And just what is that supposed to be?”
I followed the direction of her accusing finger and realized she was gesturing at a particularly tall weed growing in the corner of the yard near the fence. This weed had a heavy stalk, the thickness of a small sapling with broad, flat leaves. I had tried to uproot it many times but it always grew back. I finally gave up and glued a pot around its base so that it would appear as though it was something I had meant to grow. I even gave it a name.
“Oh, that’s just Frank,” I told Mrs. Biddlesworth. “Its proper name is…um…Frankincense herbavorium. It’s a very rare plant.”
Mrs. Biddlesworth came closer to the fence that divided our properties. She leaned forward to squint suspiciously at Frank with her small birdlike eyes.
“Wherever did you acquire such a thing?” she asked.
“I traded our pig to a dwarf peddler down in Misty Bottoms. He gave me the seeds.”
“Magic ones?” she demanded with a fierce scowl.
“No, they looked quite ordinary to me. The dwarf promised me that in time Frank will grow the most luscious melons, capable of feeding a small family for a month.”
This was all such a blatant lie I was sure Mrs. B would never believe it. We had never owned a pig. If we had, we would have eaten it long ago. When I realized she was swallowing this tale, my evil genius prompted me to add, “I plan to enter Frank in next year’s garden competition. I feel sure to win the prize for most exotic plant.”
Mrs. B reared back, her cheeks reddening with the force of her indignation. She regarded every prize in the annual competition as her due and anyone who sought to challenge her right as little better than a thief. It was probably not wise to tease a woman who already suspected me of illegal sorcery. I started to assure her I was only joking, but with her chest puffed up like an angry pigeon, she growled, “There is to be a ball at the palace.”
Expecting another accusation of witchcraft, her remark caught me off guard.
“What?” I asked, thinking I had not heard her correctly.
“There is to be a ball at the palace,” she repeated tersely. “The prince is going to choose a maiden for his bride.”
“Yes, so I have heard.”
“I hope it is you,” she spat out and stalked away before I could reply. I did not mistake her parting words as any sort of good wishes for my future happiness. Mrs. Biddlesworth had wanted to be rid of me ever since I was a child. Mal and I would sneak into her garden and raid her strawberry patch. No doubt she wished that I might marry the prince and move far away and she would acquire a respectable neighbor who would garden in a normal, tidy fashion.
I thought of telling her that I had no intention of attending the ball, so there was not the least likelihood I would marry the prince or anyone else, but why disillusion the poor woman? Everyone was entitled to her little hopes and dreams, even Mrs. Biddlesworth.
Strolling down the front walkway, I let myself out the gate, which creaked loudly. I should oil the hinges, but I liked the idea of an early warning should trouble head my way. Closing the gate behind me, I emerged onto the cobblestone street, a broad avenue lined with oak trees and streetlamps whose whimsical shape reminded me of acorns.
To the north, this street stretched upward until it split into two forks. The left branch led out to the countryside, grazing meadows, fertile farmlands and the royal forest. The right sloped up to the grand estates of the part of Arcady known as the Heights and eventually ended at the massive gilded gates of the palace.
Going southward, our street curved down to Midtown proper where the markets and governing buildings were. I took that way, bracing my flat shoes against the gentle downward slope of the hill. This road was usually quiet at this time of day, but I was passed by an unusual number of grand carriages with coachmen in livery and footmen riding up behind. Many of these coaches were designed in the latest fashion for pumpkin-shaped carriages. The whimsical design was created by the Duchess of Tarkington. Unfortunately, it had been adopted by many of her acquaintances who carried the conceit to ridiculous lengths, bright orange coaches adorned with stems, curling vines and curtains shaped like seeds.
The duchess’s rival, the Countess of Pangbourne, tried to set a trend of her own for a cucumber-shaped vehicle. It never caught on because the odd shape of her coach provoked ribald comments and catcalls from the more unruly elements of the town. Humiliated, the countess returned to her stables and the cucumber carriage was never seen again.
I would be glad to see the last of the pumpkin coaches as well. Besides looking ridiculous, they were far too wide and took up too much room on the road. More than once, as I made my way to town, I was obliged to shrink to the side to allow one of these monstrosities to lumber past.
The amount of traffic heading toward town dismayed me. There was a good reason I chose to do my shopping late in the day. The markets were never crowded and that was when you could get the best bargains from the butcher, the poultry shop and the greengrocer—when they were on the verge of closing.
I imagined the increased amount of coach traffic must be due to one reason. That wretched ball! I discerned that most of the occupants of the carriages were of the fairer sex, an army of ladies preparing to descend upon the milliners, the lace shops, the dressmakers and the Silk Emporium. I did not plan to visit any of those places, but I would have to pass through that district in order to reach the food markets.
The street narrowed as I drew nearer to town. I glared resentfully when I was obliged to leap into a ditch to avoid yet another pumpkin coach. I prepared to step back onto the roadway when I had to give way again, this time to a troop of the king’s Royal Scutcheons. They marched past me, looking crisp in their blue jackets and dun-colored pantaloons, their high boots striking the pavement in a synchronized rhythm.
Their sergeant, a stout fellow with a bristling mustache, bellowed out the cadence, “Left, right, hup! Left, right, hup!”
On the “hup,” the guards swung their right arms up and struck their fists across their chests in unison. I often wondered if they all ended up with bruised shoulders at the end of a day’s march.
There are many branches of the Scutcheons. Their floppy black berets and sashes identified this group as part of the platoon whose task it was to maintain order in town, arrest malefactors and bring them to justice.
In their midst was a prisoner being prodded along. He attempted to keep step, his hands manacled before him, his grey hair straggling over a face lined with an expression of abject misery. I speculated on what the poor man might have done. It could not be anything too serious or he would have been incarcerated in the King’s Royal Prison. The grim fortress had been nicknamed the “Dismal Dungeons,” an accurate reflection of the miserable conditions of the place.
Most likely this poor fellow had committed some minor transgression that would result in his being whipped in the town square or confined for a day in the Yoke of Shame. I should have just kept my head averted as the troop marched past but I could not help gazing with sympathy at the prisoner.
A shadow fell over me as the leader of this troop came up behind me. He was the only one mounted on horseback, a fierce-looking man, with a full dark beard. I recognized him at once but that was no great surprise. Everyone knew Commander Horatio Crushington, the head of the Midtown garrison. Nor was it any surprise that the commander was aware of who I was. Crushington made a point of knowing every resident of Midtown. He had a prodigious memory, never forgetting a name or a face.
He guided his roan gelding alongside me, a horse as massive as its master. Nodding down at me, Crushington said, “Good afternoon, Miss Upton.”
<
br /> I nodded back in acknowledgment. “Commander.”
I slowed to a halt, expecting he would ride on by. I was dismayed when he reined his mount to a stop. The entire troop would have halted as well, but the commander motioned to the sergeant to keep them moving. I could not restrain a soft outcry when their prisoner stumbled and was hauled to his feet. I knew it would be far better to say nothing, but I could not restrain my curiosity.
Shielding my eyes against the sun, I craned my neck to gaze up at Crushington. “What did that man do?” I asked.
“Nothing to alarm you, Miss Upton. Farmer Grey merely sought to evade the tax on working animals. He tried to pass off his sheep-herding dog as a pet by keeping it shut up in the house. The poor beast was frantic, barking day and night until it finally managed to leap through an open window to return to its flock.”
I lowered my gaze in an effort to conceal my disgust that this poor farmer should be dragged off in chains over such a small offense. “I was not aware that your jurisdiction extended into the countryside, Commander. How did you even know such a transgression had taken place?”
“One of Farmer Grey’s neighbors rode into town to complain. When such a report is filed, I am obliged to take action.”
“No doubt this neighbor was well paid for informing on Grey.”
“That is our system.”
I compressed my lips together to avoid telling him the system stank. Whoever had informed upon Grey had better hope none of his neighbors found out or he might endure reprisals in the form of a midnight beating. Our king’s petty laws, high taxes and habit of rewarding informants was engendering a very ugly spirit in our kingdom, setting neighbor against neighbor.
“I congratulate you on apprehending a very desperate criminal,” I said. My tone of voice was so mild another man might have missed the sarcasm, but Crushington was no fool.
I tensed when he dismounted from his horse and wished I had kept my mouth shut. The commander was just as formidable out of the saddle as when mounted. Although he frowned at me, he did not seem angry as he said, “I deplore the necessity for having to arrest men like Grey for such small offenses, but the law is the law, Miss Upton, and I am sworn to enforce it. I would much rather expend my energies pursuing more dangerous criminals. That is why I need to speak to you.”
“Oh, dear! Never say you have found me out already,” I quipped.
He subjected me to such a piercing stare, I recollected how imprudent it was to jest with this man. I hastened to add, “No doubt someone has informed you I have been insulting royal heralds again.”
Some of the tension in the commander’s face relaxed. His lips twitched upward. This might have been some sort of a tic or what passed for Crushington’s smile. I was uncertain, but his voice sounded wry as he said, “Royal heralds are accustomed to being insulted. I believe it is part of their training. No, I am more concerned with some of the bad company you keep.”
“Bad company?” I forced a smile to my lips but it was a nervous one. I feared where Crushington might be going with this. “I assure you, sir, I number no hardened criminals among my acquaintances.”
“No? Not even Malcolm Hawkridge?”
I tried not to flinch.
“Mr. Hawkridge is a respectable apothecary,” I insisted.
Crushington’s heavy brows rose upward. “I think we are both aware that is not strictly true, Miss Upton.”
“Indeed it is. Mr. Hawkridge has been my friend for years and I swear to you that I know nothing of him being involved in anything illegal.”
This was true as far as it went. If I knew nothing of Mal’s dodgier activities, it was because I chose not to know. I was aware that he occasionally dealt with smugglers, buying things on the black market. Although he was not licensed to act as a mage, he often brewed up magical potions or enchanted objects, but since Mal’s spells invariably did not work, where was the harm in that?
Of late, I had suspected that Mal might be involved in something of a more serious and dangerous nature, but I preferred to remain in ignorance. Knowing what Mal was up to would only give me one more thing to worry about that I was helpless to remedy.
“I hope you are telling me the truth, Miss Upton,” the commander said. “I have had your friend Hawkridge under observation for some time and I know he is not the simple herbalist he pretends to be. Whatever crime he is involved in, I will catch him out eventually so you would be very wise to keep your distance.”
“Are you threatening me, sir?” I demanded.
“No, merely cautioning you. I should be grieved if I was ever obliged to arrest you, because—because I like you.”
“How nice,” I mumbled.
“No, I—” He startled me by seizing my hand in his massive grip. He continued gruffly, “I mean that I really like you.”
Gazing up at him, I was horrified to see something akin to tenderness in those hard grey eyes. My jaw dropped open. When I was finally able to close it, I hardly knew what to reply to this astonishing declaration. I should make it plain that I was not interested in being really liked by him. But offending a man as powerful as the commander was not a prudent thing to do.
I finally managed to stammer, “Um, well, thank you. You are also extremely…ah…tolerable.”
An awkward silence descended in which the seconds seemed to stretch into hours. I tried to slip my hand free, but it would have been easier to wriggle out of a carpenter’s vise.
The commander cleared his throat. “I suppose like all the other Midtown ladies you are excited about the invitation from the palace and eager to attend the ball.”
“Oh, frap, no!” I blurted out, without thinking.
I thought he would be appalled by my swearing, but he merely regarded me gravely. “Your refusal to attend the ball could be misconstrued as a sign of disloyalty to the king.”
“Or a sign of my poverty,” I retorted. “I cannot afford the cost of the ticket and even if I could…” For once I managed to check my wayward tongue before I added that I thought Prince Florian was a complete moron and I would not want to marry him, even if he came gold-plated and bearing the gift of a million books. Well, perhaps that many books might induce me to—no! Not even then.
Keeping my opinion of the prince to myself, I said, “I daresay I am a very strange woman because I have no interest in becoming a princess.”
Something in the commander’s eyes brightened. “I am very glad of that.”
“Of what? That I am strange?”
“No, that you do not desire a prince, that perhaps in time, you might even consider—”
Terrified of what he might be about to say, I interrupted. “My goodness, how late it is getting! I fear I have detained you from your duties far too long. I am sure you must be a very busy man, reports to file, troops to drill, prisoners to whip. And I need to get on with my marketing.”
“Of course,” he agreed, but continued to grip my hand and regard me wistfully.
“And to do that, I really need you to release me. I have always been a two-handed shopper.”
“Oh yes, certainly.” He let go of me, his cheeks reddening with embarrassment. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but mercifully could not find the words. He settled for a stiff bow, clicking his boots together. He turned back to his mount. Any other horse might have used its master being distracted to wander off or crop at grass, but I could have sworn that gelding stood to attention the entire time.
Crushington swung up into the saddle. Looking down at me, his lips pulled upward in that peculiar twitch. “Farewell, Miss Upton. I hope we meet again soon.”
I managed a stiff smile and shook my hand. He probably thought I was waving, but I was only trying to work the circulation back into my numbed fingers. That man did not know his own strength.
He gigged his horse into motion. I remained where I was until he trotted off down the road and disappeared around the bend. When he was gone, I had to resist the urge to flee back home and bolt myself
inside my room, never to emerge again.
Heretofore Commander Crushington and I had been nothing more than passing acquaintances, the more distant, the better as far as I was concerned. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that he looked upon me with anything approaching a friendly eye. I could only wonder in dismay what I could have done to attract such a solemn, humorless man. If I ever figured it out, I vowed never, ever to do it again.
It was not that I considered the commander evil. He was nothing like many of the other Scutcheon officers, corrupt, power-mad bullies. But he was something just as frightening, a man rigid in his sense of duty, incapable of seeing shades of grey or indulging in the quality of mercy. I was quite certain he would arrest his own grandmother if she were guilty of something he deemed an infraction of the law.
Now this ruthless upholder of law and order had his stern gaze trained in my friend’s direction. I wanted to race down to Misty Bottoms to warn Mal at once. But I was restrained by the fear that Crushington might still be lurking somewhere ahead. I was going to have to head for the market first. Even if the formidable Scutcheon commander had developed an alarming infatuation with me and threatened to clap my dearest friend in irons, the Upton family still needed to eat.
When I rounded the bend, I quailed at the scene that met my eyes. Midtown’s shopping district had descended into utter madness. The dratted pumpkin coaches were everywhere, blocking the street as grooms tried to keep their restive horses calm. One of the carriages had locked wheels with an ale wagon. The carter and the bewigged coachman appeared ready to come to blows, swearing and shouting insults.
Such a dispute would have drawn a crowd on an ordinary day, but no one was paying much attention in the midst of the rest of the chaos. Women and girls thronged the street, fighting to make their way to the shops. Grand ladies from the Heights were trailed by maids and footmen as they tried to sweep majestically forward. Midtown women, usually deferential, elbowed duchesses and countesses aside to get first pick of the merchandise.
The lacemaker’s, the milliner’s and the glove and ribbon shops looked crowded with clamoring females to the point of bursting out their bow front windows. The worse congestion was of course at the Silk Emporium. Mr. Dearling, the shop’s proprietor, had conceived the brilliant notion he could relieve the crush inside his store by setting up a display outside.
Disenchanted Page 4
