Some Enchanted Evening

by Christina Dodd

  Amy’s exasperated adolescent sigh said too clearly that she found Clarice dim-witted and conventional. “Yes, yes, we’re both princesses. Princesses of Beaumontagne.” With a jerky motion Amy wiped at the white powder on her face. “Sisters bound by a royal bloodline, trapped together in exile. According to you, that justifies everything.”

  Bustling forward, Clarice tried to take the towel. “Here. Let me.”

  Amy jerked away from Clarice, from her touch, and said fiercely, “I can do it. I’ve done it often enough before.”

  Clarice’s heart sank. The longer they peddled their wares, the more unhappy Amy became.

  Clarice wandered about the shop, examining the gowns laid out to be sewn, while Amy completed her transformation from a dull, plain seamstress recently come to town to a girl hovering on the edge of prettiness. After a few more sessions with Clarice, she would be beautiful, a living testimonial to the royal face cream. And when the time came for Clarice to leave, Amy would slip out of town in her wake.

  When Amy finished, she leaned her fists on either side of the mirror and closed her eyes. Her voice vibrated with fury as she demanded, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Clarice winced but said brightly, “It went well, didn’t it?”

  “No, it did not!” Freed of the constraints of the public eye, Amy allowed her ferocity free rein. “When I wrote you, I warned you this was not the place to do our act. But you always think you know best.”

  Clarice changed to French. “We were out of money and we didn’t have time to find another town.”

  “We could both work as seamstresses.” Amy’s gaze met Clarice’s in the mirror. A silver necklace glinted at her throat. A necklace with a cross that matched Clarice’s. “We could settle down somewhere and design clothes. I’m good at it. I wouldn’t have to pretend to be ugly. We wouldn’t have to keep moving from one place to another.”

  Slowly Clarice shook her head.

  “Oh. I forgot. We’re princesses.” Amy almost spat out the words. “Princesses don’t do menial work like sewing.”

  “No.” Clarice watched her younger sister and wished things could be different. She wanted Amy to be happy, to hold the position of honor she was born to hold. But Amy had been so young when they left Beaumontagne. She’d been only ten. At fourteen Clarice had been the second oldest, and she well remembered the protocol and the luxury, the duties and the joys. She missed it, but more than that, she wanted Amy to know what it really was to be a princess, to enjoy the privileges and treasure the duties.

  “Are princesses supposed to sell people products that don’t work?” Amy demanded.

  Patiently Clarice repeated what she’d said so many times before. “We tried being seamstresses. We could barely make enough money to feed ourselves. We have to locate Sorcha, and together we have to make our way back to Beaumontagne and find Grandmamma.”

  With a brutality she’d never shown before, Amy said, “She’s dead. You know she is. Father and Grandmamma didn’t mean for us to be on the streets. Sorcha is lost.”

  Amy had spoken aloud Clarice’s deepest fears, and the pain of those words made Clarice’s breath rasp in her throat. “Papa’s dead. We know that. Godfrey said so, and so did the papers in London. But the papers said Grandmamma is back in power.”

  “And Godfrey said that Grandmamma instructed that we should not come back until she sent for us. He said there were bad people hunting us, and that we should hide until she placed an announcement in all the papers that it was safe to return.” Amy’s quavering voice recalled the fear of that time, when Grandmamma’s favorite messenger had arrived at the school and sent Clarice and Amy fleeing while he took Crown Princess Sorcha to a secret sanctuary. “There hasn’t been an announcement. We check every paper in every town, and you know Grandmamma. If she said she would put in an announcement, she would.”

  “I know. I know.” If there was one thing both girls comprehended, it was that their grandmother was a force of nature.

  “I tell you, everyone’s dead, the bad people have won, and we can’t go back.”

  “We don’t know that. Sorcha could already be there, waiting for us. I promise you’ll love it. The palace is so beautiful, and you’ll have the finest gowns and a beautiful pianoforte to play….” Clarice’s voice wobbled as she fought back tears.

  “Dear Clarice.” Amy came to her at once and put her arms around her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I only wish we could stop selling ourselves like cheap—”

  Clarice put her fingers over Amy’s mouth. “We’re not selling ourselves. We’re selling the creams Grandmamma showed me how to make. And the creams really are royal, and they are wonderful for the complexion, and—”

  “And they really don’t make anyone beautiful. If they did, I wouldn’t have to go into town a fortnight ahead of you, wearing a fake nose and white powder.”

  “But for a little while they give the women hope. That’s not so bad, is it?” Clarice cajoled.

  Glumly Amy replied, “Those people in England who want to hang you from the highest gibbet think so.”

  “It was that awful man.” Clarice set her chin. “That magistrate.”

  Now Amy’s ashen complexion owed nothing to white powder and everything to fear. She lowered her voice as if afraid of being overheard, and in Italian said, “He wanted you.”

  “I know.” Clarice walked a fine line. The wives wanted her creams, but the husbands held the purse strings, so Clarice had to be pleasant and charming to everyone, and at the same time never go over the invisible line that separated the lady from the fallen woman.

  Sometimes the men didn’t see the line. Frequently they saw only an attractive young female living without the protection of a man. That made her easy prey—and Magistrate Fairfoot had more than one reason for wanting her dead. She had hurt his pride in every way possible, and even now, in her nightmares, she could see the gray towers of the fortress at Gilmichael clawing the bloodred sky, waiting to swallow her whole and never, ever let her out.

  “Now you have another awful man after you,” Amy said.

  “Is he awful?” Hepburn didn’t seem awful. In a way, that was almost worse.

  “They’re all awful.” Amy caught Clarice by the lapels of her jacket and lowered her voice to an intense whisper. “What are you going to do about him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Clarice whispered too. “I thought from your letter he was older. Much older. He sounded so grim.”

  “He is grim.” With a glance at the door Amy said, “They claim Hepburn is a fair man, but he quarreled with his father and the old earl bought him a commission and forced him to go to war. Six years later his father died. Lord Hepburn sold his commission and came back, but the townsfolk whisper that he’s changed.”

  “Changed how?”

  “He used to be a young man, devil-may-care, enjoying a fight, drinking the night away, always laughing. Now…now he’s as you saw. The people in the town admire him—but when they speak of him, there’s an edge of fear in their voices.”

  Yes. It was that Clarice had sensed. He was a man of privilege, and yet he hid secrets in his soul. Secrets that made them alike.

  She didn’t want to recognize him and his mysteries.

  As if she read Clarice’s thoughts, Amy said, “Be careful.”

  Clarice spoke too quickly. “Why?”

  “He won’t stay in the manor with the family.”

  “Really?” That floored Clarice. She would have said he made much of his home and his place there. “Where does he stay?”

  “In one of the cottages on the estate. He comes in for breakfast and he seems natural, but they say he walks the estate and the district at night like a man haunted, and he disappears for days at a time.” Amy lowered her voice as if her own tale made her uneasy. “They say the war turned him a little mad.”

  “Oh, pshaw. Surely not mad!”

  “Yes. Mad. And dangerous. Did you see the way he watch
ed you?” Amy whispered.

  With a fair imitation of insouciance, Clarice shrugged. “They all watch me.”

  “Not like that. He’s too…he’s confident.” Amy observed Clarice with a wisdom beyond her years. A wisdom won from hard years on the road and too much innocence betrayed. “He wants—and he gets what he wants.”

  Clarice knew what Amy meant. After all, hadn’t he kissed her hand almost before she knew his name? But just because he had soft lips and a lover’s swift tongue was no reason to admit her wariness. Amy had already expressed her uneasiness about the job, and if she knew of Clarice’s anxieties, she would push for them to leave. Clarice had lost too much on their last job; having to abandon the town in a hurry had made it impossible to collect the money due them.

  At times like this, when disaster loomed on every side, Clarice could scarcely recall when she had lived in a palace, when she had been pampered and cared for, when all she knew of the world was what Grandmamma told her. Right now, Clarice wished nothing so much as to return to the palace in Beaumontagne and be that spoiled princess once more.

  Foolishness. In the last five years, Clarice had learned well what wishes were worth. So she said, “It’s best to be forewarned, so—tell me everything you know about the mad and dangerous Lord Hepburn.”

  Beaumontagne

  Eleven years before

  Dowager Queen Claudia tapped her cane along the gleaming white marble floor in the throne room in the royal palace in Beaumontagne, and like a sleek, old, domineering greyhound, she barked at her granddaughters, “Chin up! Shoulders back!”

  Fifteen-year-old Crown Prince Rainger of Richarte stood at attention on the dais, observing as she inspected the three princesses.

  He knew his turn would come.

  Resentfully, he considered the old lady. She commanded the grand chamber with her presence. Gaunt and mean, she had a whip for a tongue and blue eyes that could see a man’s sins before he’d committed them. Rainger knew, because she was also his godmother, and she exploited that honor and took him to task whenever she thought fit.

  She paced back and forth before the princesses who stood stair-stepped on the dais above her. The sunshine shone through the tall windows, brightening the long, elegant, gilded room, and complimenting the three sisters. The girls were dressed alike in white gowns with pink satin bows around their waists and pink bows in their hair. Supposedly they were pretty—for princesses.

  Rainger’s father, King Platon, said so. Their father, King Raimund, beamed with pride when he saw them. Everyone in both courts whispered at their suitability and their comeliness. Rainger supposed it was true, but he had been coming to Beaumontagne once a year ever since he could remember, and to him the girls were sometimes fun to play with, but usually an annoyance, for they would tease him without any deference for his age or exalted position.

  “Today, we’re welcoming the ambassador from France. This is an official court function, and all eyes will be fixed on you, the royal princesses of Beaumontagne.” Queen Claudia wore her white hair in a chignon, with never a strand out of place and a tiara glittering with diamonds and sapphires. Her cerulean velvet gown perfectly matched her eyes.

  Rainger thought she had to be at least one hundred years old, maybe one hundred and fifty, but her skin, while wrinkled, was untouched by blotches or broken veins. Some people whispered she was a witch, and Rainger didn’t discount the notion. She certainly sported a long, skinny nose, and everyone knew she brewed secret potions in the palace kitchen. She demanded perfection—from herself, and from everyone around her. She got it too.

  He himself had inspected his court dress before leaving his room, making sure his white linens gleamed and his dark suit fit his shoulders flawlessly. He had taken a moment too, to admire his muscled form. Countess duBelle said he was a fine figure of a man. He had to admit the countess was right.

  Queen Claudia stopped before her youngest granddaughter. “Amy, let me see your nails.”

  Reluctantly, Amy extended her hands.

  Queen Claudia inspected the princess’s outstretched palms, then examined the fingernails. “Better,” she said. “Clean, but a princess does not bite her nails. Remember, your hands and every part of your person are representative of the royal entity of Beaumontagne. Everything you do and say is subject to examination and must be above reproach.”

  Six-year-old Amy was an imp with hair as black as Rainger’s and an honesty Queen Claudia had not yet been able to crush. “But, Grandmamma, I like to bite my nails. I don’t want to be a princess if I have to stop.”

  As Amy’s candid response echoed through around the marble columns, Rainger grinned.

  Clarice put her hand over her eyes.

  Earnestly, Sorcha said, “Grandmamma, Amy doesn’t mean what she said. She’s only six.”

  Sorcha was twelve, with red hair the color of new minted copper and a kind and gentle disposition. In Rainger’s opinion, Queen Claudia had ground down her spirit with constant lectures about royal duty, and that was too bad, because she and Rainger were betrothed. He imagined he would be bored within a year of marriage.

  Queen Claudia fixed her eldest granddaughter with a freezing look. “I know Amy’s age, and such sentiments are unacceptable at any time.” She considered Amy until the little girl squirmed. “This honor which you would so freely discard is one given to only a privileged few, and a real princess should be willing to lay down her life for her country and her family. Balanced against such demands, giving up a disgusting habit is easy.”

  Amy dug her toe into the rich pile of the red carpet leading up to the throne. She muttered, “Then I guess I’m not a real princess.”

  Clarice released a smothered giggle.

  Queen Claudia turned on eleven-year-old Clarice, a blonde with masses of curls springing around her face. Her nostrils flared as she declared, “You will not encourage her in her insolence!”

  “No, Grandmamma.” But Clarice’s eyes still twinkled, and she dug her elbow into Sorcha’s side.

  Sorcha pinched her back.

  Queen Claudia smacked her cane on the floor.

  The princesses jumped and straightened.

  Since the death of the girls’ mother four years before, Queen Claudia had commanded every aspect of their lives, and she was so stern, so humorless, Rainger was convinced she had never been young.

  “Amy, I will deliver to your bedchamber an ointment that you’ll smear on your fingernails every morning and every night,” Queen Claudia said. “That will cure you of your habit, and teach you to mind your manners too.”

  In a sing-song voice Amy said, “Yes, Grandmamma.”

  Transferring her attention to Clarice, Queen Claudia said, “Since you believe this is a subject for amusement, you will help me prepare the ointment.”

  Clarice’s face fell. “Yes, Grandmamma.”

  “Throughout our history every princess of Beaumontagne has been taught the royal beauty secrets. Sorcha knows. It is time that you, Clarice, also—” Queen Claudia leaned toward Clarice and took a deep breath. In tones rife with horror, the dowager asked, “Do I detect the scent of horse?”

  Clarice cringed backward. “The French ambassador brought Papa the most beautiful Arabian I’ve ever seen, and I petted his neck. But only once!”

  “Once was evidently enough.” Queen Claudia proclaimed, “A princess does not pet horses for pleasure.”

  Rainger was moved to protest. “Godmother, Clarice loves horses, and she has a way with them which even the hostler admires.”

  Queen Claudia lifted her cane and poked him in the ribs. “Young Rainger, you’re not too old to copy the Book of Kings.”

  During his annual visits to Beaumontagne, Queen Claudia had often ordered Rainger to write out the Book of Kings from the Bible as punishment for his misbehaviors. Even now, if Queen Claudia told him to do it, he wouldn’t have the nerve to refuse.

  Yet Sorcha sent him a grateful glance, and he knew she appreciated his effort on her siste
r’s behalf.

  In the year since Rainger had last seen her, Sorcha had grown tall, but her feet and hands were still too big, and she moved clumsily, leading Rainger’s father to predict she would get taller yet. Clarice had grown a little too, and her figure had filled out. Amy was still a rambunctious child, rebelling at every opportunity at her role as princess.

  All the courtiers told Rainger he was lucky that he got to marry one of these princesses. But he resented having his bride picked out for him. He was mature. He could choose his own bride. He would rather marry Countess duBelle. The only thing stopping him was her age, which was almost twenty-five…well, and her husband, who was very much alive. Rainger ignored the niggles of his conscience as he sneaked into her bed, for he loved the beautiful, vivacious, wicked lady.

  In that voice that froze the marrow in his bones, Queen Claudia told Clarice, “I can only hope you haven’t ruined the reception with your selfishness. As soon as it’s over I’ll provide you with my special soap and you’re to wash to your elbows. Do you understand? To your elbows!”

  “Yes, Grandmamma,” Clarice said weakly.

  “And no more horses.” As if sensing another objection from Rainger, she turned on him. “So, Crown Prince Rainger, what will you do at this reception?”

  Resentful that she demanded an accounting of his behavior, he bowed, and answered, “Yawn.”

  In crushing tones she answered, “Being royal means you know how to yawn with your mouth closed.”

  “Of course.” But her quick reply shook him. He should have remembered. She had a truism for every occasion.

  Queen Claudia peered at her oldest granddaughter. “Is that a spot on your forehead?”

  Sorcha touched the swelling. “Just a little one.”

  “No butter for you. No candy. And you will use my complexion wash to cleanse your face twice a day”—Queen Claudia tilted Sorcha’s chin up and examined her critically—“and my color emulsion to cover the mark. A princess must always produce the face of perfection. Remember, not everyone wishes you well.”