by C. K. Brooke
“Don’t mind him,” Eludaine called after his departing figure. She suddenly stood to her own feet, cupping her hands over her mouth to ensure her voice carried. “He’s just sour because, after all this, he won’t be winning any gold tomorrow!”
“Eludaine,” scolded Bos. “Do not cause a scene.”
The duchess rounded on him. “What do you care?”
“My lady,” murmured Selu, eyes downcast.
The girl looked between them before seeming to remember herself. Slowly, she lowered back down.
“I think Her Highness and I ought to retire,” suggested Selu.
Macmillan poured himself another glass from the decanter. “I daresay, but this is the best wine I’ve ever tasted.”
THE DUCHESS ALLOWED SELU TO guide her to their room. Knowing the young woman was distraught, Selu helped her undress and settle onto her mat. After tucking the blankets over her, she knelt by the girl’s side.
Selu sighed. She well knew the unique brand of heartache caused by senseless men who made decisions with their loins instead of their hearts. At the same time, Cosmith had made a point of showing up to apologize that morning. He had looked terrible, which was saying something with regards to the admittedly good-looking—if not completely moronic—man. And Selu recognized true remorse when she saw it.
She looked into the girl’s face, taking in her helpless stare. “Oh my,” Selu realized, watching her. “But you truly care for him.”
Eludaine moaned. “I’m hopeless, Selu.”
“Stop.”
“Jon doesn’t care for me, and my uncle will make me marry Mac.”
“Macmillan is a good man.”
“I know.” But she only sounded more devastated.
“Then what’s the matter?” said Selu, though she suspected she knew the answer.
“It just doesn’t feel right with Mac.” Her eyes pooled.
Selu glanced down. Should she tell her what Jon had said that morning? She didn’t want to influence her either way. “My lady,” she began, but was interrupted.
“Selu, I’m no longer a duchess. Please, just Dainy.”
“Dainy, Jon stopped by our room this morning.”
The girl sniffled.
Selu sighed. Did she really wish to see such a pristine young thing contaminated by the likes of Cosmith? Then again, who was she to pass judgment if an angel such as Eludaine Ducelle should see something redeeming in a devil like Jon Cosmith, even if Selu couldn’t see it herself?
“Jon claims he did not kiss…that girl. But that she kissed him.”
Dainy snorted. “What nonsense.”
“He looked very sorry.” Selu hesitated. “He says he only let her because…because he was jealous over you and Macmillan.”
The girl furrowed her brow. “He said that?”
Selu shrugged. “More or less.”
Dainy chewed her bottom lip. “But is he not only jealous for the gold?”
“I’m not entirely sure of that, Dainy,” Selu admitted. “But can I tell you something, from one woman to another?”
Dainy nodded.
“It seems to me,” said Selu, “that from the way Jon Cosmith seems to have become completely unraveled by you, it may be more than just gold he cares about.”
NO ONE TARRIED THE FOLLOWING morning. A bundle of nerves, Dainy washed and dressed, trying her best to look presentable. Under the chilly rising sun, they mounted their steeds and took off through the winding hills.
They came upon the upscale hamlet of Omar. Her heart tumbling with anticipation, she followed her escort up the hill that led to her uncle’s sprawling stone mansion.
To her travel-worn eyes so accustomed to beach huts, wooden boats, forest caves, and old inns, the enormous estate felt imaginary. Surely, no one could live in a place so grand. It was unreal.
They descended their animals in the lawn. Dainy first approached Bos, and stood on her toes to peck him on the cheek. Next, she wrapped her arms around Macmillan.
Finally, she stood before Jon. His chest heaved somewhat, as though wondering if he might receive her kiss or embrace. But she only patted his shoulder halfheartedly.
With a shiver, Dainy regarded the intimidating building. She then took Macmillan’s arm at her left, before pausing to beckon Jon to her right.
Clearly surprised to be given the honor, Cosmith came forward, and took her right arm in his. Behind them, Selu took Bos’s hand and, flanked as such by her escort, the lost duchess, now found, made her way up the threshold to her uncle’s imposing double doors.
She gathered a deep breath, steadying her rushing pulse, and raised her grip to the knocker. After administering three knocks, she stepped back, waiting with bated breath.
DAINY’S HEART POUNDED WITH SUCH ferocity, she feared Jon and Mac, standing on either side of her, would hear it.
The double doors suddenly parted before them, and out stepped a doorman, followed by a female housekeeper.
“May we help you?”
“We are the search party, come to return Duchess Eludaine to Lord Gatspierre,” Mac told them proudly, and Dainy thought she detected the flex of his arm beneath her grip.
The housekeeper gasped, falling to her knees to genuflect. The old doorman nearly tripped over her as he made to do the same.
Dainy did her best to smile graciously and appear dignified, though she was dressed in rags, and despite washing that morning, she still felt filthy.
Their greeters shouted out for the rest of the staff, and Dainy waited, taking in the stained-glass windows, marble floors, statues of cavalry, and a curving wrought iron staircase.
Well over a dozen household staff appeared, beseeching Dainy and her escort to enter. The moment her shoes hit the marble, the room around her collapsed. Amazed, Dainy realized that she was the only person left standing, as each of her uncle’s staff—and her four companions—had fallen prostrate at her feet.
“Please rise,” she insisted, self-consciously smoothing her tatty skirts.
“My lord, you must come at once! It is her,” a new voice cried, echoing around the marvelous foyer. A rotund, balding man emerged breathlessly into their midst.
Dainy took in a slight breath. Could this be her uncle? He was certainly not what she’d been expecting.
The corpulent man adjusted his spectacles. “Ah! But ’tis Néandra all over again!” he declared.
“All right, Maxos, I’ve heard you. I’m coming,” called a pleasant voice, and Dainy looked to the staircase.
The first thing she saw was a pair of gleaming shoes, followed by long, graceful legs. Dainy held her breath as he descended the steps and came into full view. An impeccably dressed, dashing man of middle age stepped onto the white marble floor. He grinned as he approached, his silvery hair combed back elegantly, with green eyes shining identically to her own.
“Are you,” Dainy breathed, “my uncle?”
The man smiled at her in a most fatherly way, for a moment reminding her so much of Uncle Pascale that she longed to embrace him. He nodded significantly. “And are you,” he asked, “my niece, Eludaine?”
“Just Dainy,” she replied.
“Just Dainy,” he repeated curiously. With a flourish, he genuflected to her, then rose and took her into his arms. The room erupted into applause as they embraced, the two sole survivors of the royal family, reunited at last.
Her uncle, Hessian Gatspierre, was the first to break his hold. He looked her over. “Ah, yes. But you are without a doubt my sister’s daughter.” He nodded assuredly. “You so resemble her. Although your hair is like your father’s.”
Staring into her uncle’s aging yet handsome face, Dainy felt a sudden crash of gravity about her. So, this was all real, then. She truly was a duchess, even if only a former one. It was no longer a fairy tale told by her aunts, or a title to
be tossed playfully among her friends, but a true identity, with meaning, a history, and real people.
She glanced around the mansion, beginning to apprehend the life she’d lost. And it was such a different life from the one she had always, up until that moment, recognized as her own. She could not comprehend living in such a home, which felt to her as large as a village itself, with staff to wait on her, fine clothing to wear, multiple meals a day, and all the foreign rituals of court.
While Dainy knew she was, in some way, home at last, at the same time, she couldn’t help but feel out of place. She was ashamed of her dusty tunic and stinking, ragged skirts, embarrassed of her unladylike shorn hair. What must her elegant uncle think of her? Did she disappoint him?
But the man only grinned warmly at her, then indicated her companions with interest. “And which one of you is responsible for today’s joyous reunion?”
Dainy beamed at her friends. “They all are.”
Gatspierre glanced at the three men and began to laugh. “But, all of them?” He ran his fingers through his graying hair with delight. “Were you gentlemen unaware that this was supposed to be something of a competition?” He then spotted Selu. “And a woman! Why, I never….”
They opened their mouths to explain, but Gatspierre waved them off. “I only jest.” He chuckled, patting Dainy between the shoulder blades. “We shall figure something out for your reward,” he assured them.
“Today is cause for great celebration!” Her uncle’s words rang exuberantly through the halls, garnering another cheer from his staff. “Paisley, Hilde, Tamaske?”
Three matronly housemaids bustled forward.
“Escort these lovely people to their own quarters and draw each a bath,” Gatspierre told them. “They have traveled a great distance.” He then said, “Barma?”
A formidable-looking woman joined them. “Visit Omar Village at once,” Gatspierre told her gently, “and select for these two beautiful ladies the finest gowns gold can buy.” He turned to his manservant. “And from my things, find something for these two comely lads to wear.” He glanced between Mac and Cosmith, before eyeing Bos. “As for that one, I’m unsure whether I have anything to fit him.”
“We’ll manage something, my lord,” said the manservant.
Dripping with enthusiasm, Gatspierre addressed his guests. “Please, rest and refresh yourselves! We will celebrate tonight over dinner.” He gave Dainy a peck on the cheek and disappeared down the hall.
The housemaids led them up the staircase. After climbing more steps than Dainy could count, the maids directed them to their respective rooms. Dainy’s and Selu’s chambers were the last ones down the long hall, opposite each other.
In disbelief, Dainy stepped into a carpeted bedchamber. It was bigger than the entire Beili Bungalow. Mouth agape, she gazed at the whitewashed ceilings engraved with decorative leaves in the molding, to the striped papered walls, over to the chintz chairs by the window, and the marble washbasin by the looking glass. Fresh flowers adorned the room as the soft clanging of wind chimes resounded close by, and her eyes rested upon the luxurious bed.
Without waiting for the maids to draw her bath, Dainy climbed onto the soft mattress. She closed her eyes, and within moments was asleep, the summer breeze rustling the chiffon curtains at her open window, while fresh sunshine trickled in to warm her.
“DAINY.” SELU GAVE HER A small shake. The afternoon was wearing, after all, and it was only a matter of time until the dinner Gatspierre intended to hold for them.
Dainy’s eyes blinked open. She peered up from beneath long lashes. “Selu,” she said, sounding disoriented. “How long was I asleep?”
“Don’t worry. There’s still plenty of time to get ready, if you rise now and have your bath.”
Leaving the girl to prepare in privacy, Selu returned to her own chamber and gazed through the open window at the vast estate, meticulously trimmed brush, and cobblestone pathway. She’d never stayed anywhere so opulent.
But, though splendid, Hessian Gatspierre’s Häffstrom home made her feel somewhat sad. For was it not, after all, a pale replica, a mere shadow of what the royal family had once had—and lost? The man’s very striving to recreate the world he’d known in the old Jordinia, before the New Republic had conquered it, only served to remind her of all that was truly gone from her homeland.
The sunlight was fading when a maid entered to help her dress. The old woman, Barma, had not only purchased for her a magnificent gown of royal purple, but a lovely pair of black slippers, along with an onyx pendant to flaunt at her throat.
The maid led her to the mirror, and Selu admired herself. She could hardly wait to see Bos’s reaction. She sighed, inspecting her reflection at every angle. Sweet Bos. Rugged, brawny and fiercely loyal, the man was her protector, just like her father had been.
Someone knocked at the door. Hilde, another housemaid, entered. “The duchess would like her friend’s opinion,” she told her. “Just wait till you see her…!”
Selu followed her across the hall into Dainy’s quarters. She glanced around, seeing no one at first, until she spotted movement by the window.
Selu held her breath. The girl stood robed in a magnificent gown of glittering, sequined emerald to match the shade of her eyes. Her swooping, heart-shaped neckline displayed her creamy bust, while the dress hugged her at the waist and hips, accentuating her figure. Her athletic legs were elongated beneath the straight fall of the shimmering hem, which hung to her ankles, completed by a pair of delicate green slippers on her feet.
Rolling her gaze back up to Dainy’s face, Selu saw that the maids had not applied much powder or rouge, for the young woman didn’t need it. But her eyelids were carefully shadowed with a seductive coating of kohl.
Dainy moved, and her dress shimmered like water upon glass, the dim sunlight of the evening reflecting majestically off of the sequins. Her short black hair was generously oiled and pushed back behind her ears, making her shine from head to toe.
“Eludaine Ducelle.” Selu sighed. “My, but you are astonishing.”
Dainy glanced at her from beneath those darkened lids. “I look all right, then?”
“Have you not seen a mirror?” Selu took her hand. “Take a good look at yourself,” she demanded, steering her to the looking glass on the wall, “and you tell me if you look all right.”
MACMILLAN AND HIS COMPANIONS SPENT the better part of the morning being measured and fitted into Hessian Gatspierre’s spare clothing, each garment finer than the last. After bathing and resting, they dressed that evening in preparation for dinner.
Without knocking, Bos barged into Macmillan’s room, tugging at the neck of Gatspierre’s fine yet heavily-altered blouse. “I can hardly breathe, this clothing is so tight,” the man complained. Macmillan noticed that, even as the maids had sewn extra fabric onto his trouser legs, the hairy skin of the giant’s ankles was still exposed.
Otherwise, Macmillan thought, Bos looked an entirely different person than when they’d first met. Cleanly shaven with no more beard, his hair now trimmed, and dressed in a fine cotton suit, Bos could have passed for a courtier—albeit, a very tall one—rather than a woodsman.
Macmillan peered into the looking glass, examining himself critically. Gatspierre and his manservant had loaned him a suit of midnight blue. It fell loose on him, the jacket rather baggy. But it was the finest clothing he’d ever worn. He fastened the jacket at the waist and pulled out his collar. Mussing his hair, he peered into his reflection. Carefully, he unbuttoned the top of his blouse.
“I cannot move my shoulders, lest the fabric slip up and expose my forearms,” Bos went on darkly, flexing uncomfortably in his too-small clothing.
Macmillan grinned at him. “I’m sure Selu will not be deterred.”
“So the party’s in here,” came a familiar voice, and Macmillan grimaced. He dreaded to so much as turn and
see the other man, as Cosmith was bound to outdo everyone in appearance.
“Of course, Cosmith’s suit fits him perfectly,” grumbled Bos.
Macmillan turned. As expected, Cosmith looked undeniably, infuriatingly debonair in a simple black suit. Why, he was more elegant than Gatspierre. “Well, Cosmith.” Macmillan folded his arms. “As always, you are fierce competition.”
But Cosmith’s features went strangely blank. “I didn’t realize there was any competition left.”
“I expect we’ll be summoned any moment now,” interrupted Bos, glancing at the clock on the wall. “But I know not how I shall fit any food in my stomach when these trousers are so tight.”
At last, Gatspierre’s manservant arrived to fetch them. They trailed behind him down the staircase. They were then led through a winding succession of doors and hallways, until presented to a surprisingly small, yet cozy dining room.
Sconces were mounted on the burgundy papered walls, and a mahogany table with clawed feet crowded the intimate chamber. The men stepped onto the scarlet rug and looked to Gatspierre, who was seated at the head of the table.
“Welcome to my private dining room!” he boomed. He wore a classic suit of gray pinstripes, his silver hair gelled back. “Sit anywhere you’d like,” he beckoned them, “although, I prefer to have my niece to my right, if you don’t mind.”
Macmillan immediately selected the chair beside Gatspierre’s right, ensuring his place next to Dainy. After a quick glance around the room, Cosmith sat left of Gatspierre, across from Dainy’s seat.
Macmillan frowned.
“The women shall be joining us shortly.” Gatspierre lifted his goblet and rolled its contents therein. “In the meantime, would you care for some wine?”
