Entwined

by Heather Dixon Wallwork

  A long while later, numb both inside and out, she went inside. The warm kitchen air burned her cheeks. She wanted dearly to collapse into bed. Passing the nook glass doors, however, she drew back. Instead of the usual morning sight—the girls yawning into their porridge as the King sorted through the post—all the girls laughed and chattered as Lord Teddie passed around a platter full of flat cakes. The King sat at the head of the table, bemused. Lord Teddie laughed and jabbered so loudly Azalea could hear him through the glass.

  “You put berries, or cinnamon, or whatever you like on it and fold the sides around—oh, well done, Hollyhocky! It’s ripping! Oh, hulloa, Princess A!”

  Azalea made to run, but in an instant Lord Teddie had thrown open the glass doors and pulled her in.

  “I don’t feel like eating,” she said as everyone pushed her to a seat. She was too tired to make a fuss. “What is all this?”

  “Ha!” Lord Teddie beamed. A bit of flour smudged his nose. “That’s what your father said. I was just explaining to them, I just was explaining, I saw Miss Bramble yesterday at breakfast and I saw how she hates porridge and who can blame her, really? So I thought, I say! I’ll make a corking present! So Cookie and I went to market yesterday and we were up early this morning and we made a Delchastire breakfast and it’s smashing! Isn’t it, Cookie?”

  It was hard to tell what Mrs. Graybe thought of Lord Teddie. She set a jug of cream on the table, said, “Yes, m’lord,” and left for the kitchen.

  “We eat it with our fingerth!” cried Ivy, whose hands dripped with jam.

  “Use a knife and fork,” said the King. “We are not animals! Silverware, at once.”

  “Oh, but that would ruin it!” said Lord Teddie. “Breakfast is meant to be splattered everywhere! It wakes a person up!”

  The King sucked in his cheeks.

  “Young man,” he said, a term that did not bode well for Lord Teddie. “Does your ship not leave today?”

  Lord Teddie’s face fell.

  “Oh…yes,” he said. “It does.” He gave a wan smile, and stumbled on. “I—I wish I didn’t have to go. These past several days have been ripping. Rippingly ripping. I—I’m awfully chuffed about you all. I…sort of feel at home here.”

  Lord Teddie smiled hopefully at the King over the dripping jam jars and jugs of milk.

  “I wish I could stay longer,” he said. “If I were to be invited, I would.”

  The King folded his arms, complete iciness. A pang of sympathy ran through Azalea.

  “Perhaps you can visit next year, Lord Haftenravenscher,” she said.

  Lord Teddie brightened. A little.

  “Oh…all right,” he said. “Or you could all come to my manor! Mother will host a corking ball; we have a horrifically gigantic ballroom, you’ll love it!”

  And then Lord Teddie turned to Bramble, who Azalea realized had been silent the entire time. She hadn’t greeted Azalea, or even looked up. Instead she stared at her lap, fingering the threadbare black lace on her cuff that was coming unstitched. She kept pressing the frayed ends back into the cuff, over and over, almost feverishly. Her lips pursed together so tightly they were white.

  “Do you like it, Bramble?” said Lord Teddie. “Better than porridge, I should think!” He hopefully nudged a jam jar toward her. “Er…princess?”

  Bramble tore her eyes from her lap and fixed a celery green glare on Lord Teddie. It froze the smile on his face.

  “Mrs. Graybe,” she said. “Mrs. Graybe! Do we have any porridge?”

  “What?” said Lord Teddie. “You don’t want—”

  “I love porridge!” Bramble snarled.

  “But—”

  “I don’t want your stupid charity!” Bramble cried. “Go back to your stupid manor! Leave us alone!” She threw her cake at him. It missed and landed jam down, on the floor.

  “Miss Bramble!” said the King. “Apologize, at once!”

  Bramble shoved her chair aside and fled from the nook, her face buried in her hands. Bramble never exactly cried, but she had a sob-whimper that squeaked when she inhaled, and it echoed sob squeak sob squeak-squeak-squeak down the hall.

  Lord Teddie stared at the glass nook doors, then at the flat cake breakfast, then back at the doors. His mouth tightened. He leaned and shoved his plate away.

  “The devil,” he said, in a tone that was not jovial or cheerful at all. “My ship leaves soon, doesn’t it. I suppose I ought to go catch it, then! Good day!”

  Azalea found Bramble, several minutes later, huddled behind the curtains on the window seat. The window light made her deep red hair fiery. Bent over with squeaky sobs, she fumbled with a needle and thread and tried, one-handed, to mend the shabby bit of lace on her cuff.

  “I hate him,” she sobbed. “And I hate me.”

  Azalea took Bramble’s arm and mended the cuff herself, then unpinned Bramble’s hair and combed it until Bramble dipped into a fitful sleep. She could understand, a little, how she felt.

  Their sulky moods trickled down to the younger ones, who argued and whined, Christmas spirits low. Perhaps the King had noticed it, for just before tea, a great commotion of stamping boots and calling orders echoed from the entrance hall, and the girls ran to see the hullabaloo. The King, dusted with snow and pine needles, arrived at the palace main doors tugging a great pine tree. The girls squealed with delight.

  “Clover’s Christmas tree!”

  “Huzzah!”

  The girls joined hands in a reel and started to sing a nonsense Christmas song.

  “It is not a Christmas tree!” said the King, so firmly that all the girls stopped jumping about. “This is a house of mourning. It is nothing more than a tree. I thought it would look nice. Inside. That is all.”

  Puddles formed on the wood as the King began to set it up in the corner beneath the mezzanine, the girls hopping from foot to foot.

  “Are we allowed to decorate this tree-that-is-not-a-Christmas-tree-that-is-just-meant-to-be-inside?” said Bramble.

  The King took in Bramble’s red eyes and hollow-cheeked face and frowned.

  “If you will pluck up, young lady,” he said. Then, as the twins brought the basket of yarn-stitched ornaments from the library, “Where is Miss Clover?”

  Everyone looked about, surprised. Clover wasn’t with them.

  “She’s probably helping Old Tom in the gardens again,” said Delphinium. “She’s been doing that a lot lately. Running off to the gardens.”

  “More cider for us,” peeped Hollyhock, bringing a steaming mug of rewarmed cider from the kitchen. Azalea took a shawl and was out the door.

  “I’ll fetch her,” she said.

  Since it hadn’t snowed for several days, the garden paths had been cleared, and Azalea saw no footprints. So she searched for the likeliest places Clover would be: the stone benches in the overgrown topiaries, the stairs by the drained fountains. She kept an eye out for Old Tom’s wheelbarrow.

  She had nearly given up when another sight gave her pause. In the far back part of the gardens, tethered to the gazebo, was a large white horse with a long, snowy mane. LadyFair, Fairweller’s horse!

  The old garden gazebo was a sort of Eathesbury lovers’ landmark. They had been chided as children to leave it be and let the couples visiting the gardens have their time alone, but Azalea still remembered peeking with her sisters through the lattice, listening to gentlemen read poems or murmur sappy words of love.

  It had been funny, then. Now, having some experience of love, Azalea didn’t see much humor in it.

  Still…Fairweller…

  Curiosity overriding her sensibilities, she pussyfooted over the path and crouched down beneath the bushes, just next to the splintery latticework. She peered up through the holes.

  Only feet were visible, the rest blocked by the underside of the bench. Azalea recognized the immaculately shiny boots of Fairweller. The lady’s boots were hard and stiff, not unlike Azalea’s, which meant she was poor. That ruled out Lady Caversham, then. Azalea l
istened, patient.

  “You trace your toe back,” came Fairweller’s voice, “touch your toes, step aside. Other foot steps back. Well done.”

  He was teaching the lady a version of the waltz Azalea did not know. The lady’s shoes turned, graceful. She was good, even in boots. So was Fairweller. Azalea remembered how well he had danced at the Yuletide.

  The lady said something, so quiet Azalea did not hear it.

  “You are very good,” came Fairweller’s voice. “You are incomparable.”

  The lady’s feet turned again, meaning Fairweller had brought her into an under-arm turn, spinning her. Her feet stepped just in front of Fairweller’s, and stopped. The lady laughed quietly, a light, pastry-sweet laugh, then—

  Silence. Azalea drummed her fingers against the lattice, waiting for something to happen.

  “I’ve spoken to Father Benedict.”

  Fairweller’s voice was low and quiet. The lady’s feet stepped back.

  “He says he is willing at any hour. We could leave tonight. On my ship. I’ll take you to Delchastire. The ballrooms there are so grand, they are fit for you—”

  “No.”

  The lady’s voice was firm, and the timbre of it made the hairs on the back of Azalea’s neck prickle.

  “Oh, my lady. Your father would never approve. I know him too well.”

  Azalea leaned in. Elopement…forbidden love…if Fairweller was caught courting a young lady without her father’s permission, he would end up in a duel. Azalea cringed.

  “It is not the way a wedding ought to be done,” said the lady. “Weddings are meant to be with family. I will not allow it unless my sisters are there.”

  Azalea stopped breathing. The sweet, crystal way the lady had said “my sisters” curdled in her ears.

  “If your sisters come to your wedding, my lady, it will only be to murder me.”

  Azalea slowly stood.

  “Well, at least they will be there.”

  Fairweller laughed, a foreign sound to Azalea, and through the lattice and dead vines, she saw his dark figure pull the lady into his arms. A lady who had golden blond hair, rosy cheeks, and a smile like a chorus of angels.

  Clover.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Oh—oh!” Azalea stormed to the entrance of the gazebo. On her way rested Old Tom’s snow-capped wheelbarrow, and she snatched up a frozen pair of gardening gloves from it.

  Fairweller and Clover broke apart at the sound of her boots stomping up the stairs. Fairweller turned to face Azalea—

  And got smacked in the face with a pair of ice gloves.

  “How dare you!” cried Azalea. “Just because she’s beautiful and kind doesn’t mean you can—can do this!” She whapped him again across his handsome, colorless face. Her temper flared, stinging her eyes. “You know better! The King will never stand for it!”

  Fairweller flinched at the word king. “I don’t—” he began.

  Whap!

  “I think you ought to go now, Minister,” said Clover, grabbing Azalea’s hands and pulling her away before Azalea could manage another whap. “It’s all right. I’ll talk to her.”

  Fairweller opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, cast a despairing look at Clover, and closed it again. He took his hat from the frozen bench, looked again at Clover, then mounted LadyFair and left.

  When the hoofbeats faded, Clover broke her serene calm and laughed. She threw her arms around Azalea, laughing and weeping at the same time.

  “I’m so glad you know!” she said. “So glad! It’s been wholly torture to keep it to myself! I thought I would burst!”

  Azalea made an odd strangled noise.

  “Yes—I suppose it’s a bit of a shock,” said Clover.

  “A bit!” said Azalea.

  Clover pulled Azalea to the rickety gazebo bench and clasped Azalea’s hand in her own. “It does make him seem like a—a cad, doesn’t it? But it wasn’t him at all. I’ve loved him for ages, Lea. For over a year!”

  Azalea stared at the dainty ribbon watch pinned to Clover’s waist. It was beautiful, held suspended in a sweep of silver swirls. Clover gently touched it.

  “You know—since—I’m not very good at—at speaking, I like to just—watch people,” said Clover. “Ever since he became the Prime Minister, I’ve watched Fairweller. Did you know he’s a member of our household?”

  “Only technically,” said Azalea.

  “Yes,” said Clover. She smoothed a fold on her black skirt. “But he’s always acted like it, too. Even—even when we’ve treated him so horridly. Do you remember when Ivy got lost in the gardens, when—when she was four?”

  “Yes,” said Azalea slowly. She brought to mind the image of Ivy chasing after a hopping bird with a hatbox, pushing her way through the bushes one fall afternoon. They had laughed over it and returned to clipping flowers for Mother’s room. They thought nothing more of it until Ivy hadn’t shown for dinner. They all blamed one another for not watching her, then ran to the chill gardens to find her.

  “She turned up, though,” said Azalea defensively. “She’s never far from the dinner table, you know that.”

  “She turned up,” said Clover, “because—because Minister Fairweller searched the wood with his hound. I—I was at the back gate when I saw him leading LadyFair out of the mist into the meadow, Ivy huddled on her back. It—it was like a picture from one of Eve’s storybooks—except for the part where Ivy threw up all over him, when he helped her from the horse.”

  Azalea opened her mouth, then shut it.

  “And—and the Delchastrian doctor, the one who came last year—” Clover began.

  “Oh, honestly!” said Azalea, grinding a dried leaf into the wood floor with her boot. “You’re not going to tell me he had something to do with that, too? We scraped to pay for those medicines!”

  “Minister Fairweller,” said Clover, standing abruptly, “paid for nearly all of them.”

  “He did not!” said Azalea, coloring.

  “I—I heard him speaking to that doctor,” said Clover. “Late one night, and—and I had to send letters of inquiry to sort it all together. Minister made it a great secret—of course he had to! The King would never allow such help!”

  Clover paced the gazebo floor, almost feverishly. Wooden planks creaked, and her skirts swished with her stride. She clenched her fists.

  “Last year, Lady Caversham—you remember her? She found me in the gardens, and—and she told me she would give me a penny if I delivered a note to Minister Fairweller.”

  “A love letter?” said Azalea. “How awful. Well, at least you got a penny out of it.”

  “I did not!” said Clover, her blue eyes blazing. Her skirts snapped as she turned. “Of course I didn’t take her money. When she left I—I just stared at that horrid perfumed letter and—and I couldn’t bear to think of Fairweller with her! He was too good and noble and—and—” Clover’s fists shook. “And I realized I was in love with him! And I would marry him! Fairweller was mine!”

  “Yes, all right, naturally,” Azalea squeaked. She cowered under Clover’s tirade, gripping the edge of the bench. A dozen tiny slivers embedded themselves into her palms. She suddenly knew how the tea set felt in its last moments. “What did Fairweller say? When you delivered the note?”

  “Oh,” said Clover, calming a little. “Well…nothing, actually. I sort of…accidentally…tore it to pieces.”

  “Accidentally,” Azalea echoed.

  “And threw it into the fire,” said Clover.

  “Oh.”

  Clover tugged the ends of her shawl around her shoulders, and smiled bashfully. “Well,” she said. “He was mine, after all. And now he’s finally noticed me. I thought I would have to smack him across the head with a book or something.” She sat down next to Azalea, still beaming. “But he came around.”

  In Azalea’s shock, something surfaced.

  “Clover,” she said. “You’re not—not—”

  “Stuttering?” Clover beamed. “I�
��still do. A little. But Minister has been so easy to talk to, and—well. He says I have a pretty voice,” she added shyly.

  Azalea had nothing to say to that.

  “He wants me to elope.”

  “I heard.”

  “Oh—but I can’t! He’s certain the King would never allow our union. If Mother were here, she could talk to the King. But—” Clover fingered the swirls of the watch at her waist, then brightened at Azalea. “Perhaps you could!”

  “Definitely not me,” said Azalea.

  “Oh, Lea!” said Clover. “Who else can do it? You’re the closest thing to Mother we have!”

  Azalea pinched the slivers in her palm with her fingernails, biting her lip. The King would be up in arms over this. Fairweller, courting Clover, not only in mourning, but without the King’s approval or knowledge. There would be a duel. Azalea did not like Fairweller, but she did not want him hurt. At least, not a lot. All this pulled her down like heavy crinolines, adding to the burden of Keeper’s threat. Azalea closed her eyes.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  Clover leaped up and threw her arms around Azalea, beaming to tears.

  That afternoon, as the girls busied in the kitchen baking gingerbread ornaments for the tree, Azalea nervously slipped into the library. The door was already open.

  The King stood when he saw her. Sitting across from his desk was a gentleman, who stood as well. Azalea did not recognize him, staring at his hairy eyebrows and dark under-eye circles. He reminded her of a rainstorm. She made to retreat back into the entrance hall.

  “Oh, Azalea. No, it’s all right, don’t go,” said the King. “We were finished. Good day, Mr. Gasperson.”

  “Good day,” said the gentleman, drawing out the word day. Azalea gave him a wide berth as he clumped out of the library.

  “Who was that?” said Azalea when the door had slid shut. “I thought we wouldn’t have guests for Christmas.”

  “What? Oh, certainly not. He’s—official R.B., of sorts. Come in, have a seat. I need to speak with you.”

  “Good,” said Azalea. She sat on the sofa across from the desk. “I need to speak with you.”