by Kari Edgren
I glanced up at him, unable to keep the dismay from my face. Mr. Faber was a large man, tall as Henry with powerfully built arms that looked strong enough to snap a person in half. A smithies apron covered his white linen shirt, the dark leather emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and lending him a savage quality I hadn’t noticed earlier. Looking at him now, I saw a different man altogether from when Cate had been standing beside me—younger, unkempt, his shirtsleeves stained and his long chestnut hair barely contained by the leather lacing.
Good Heavens! How well did Cate even know this man? The obvious answer was not well at all, he being a smithy and she a lady of the first rank. Yet she had abandoned me to his care with nary a second thought for my safety. He stood across the counter, no more than an arm’s length between us. Unsettled by his nearness, my first instinct was to take several steps back. I forced the urge aside, thinking it best not to cause offense. It was his shop and, thanks to Cate, I was officially his guest. So rather than retreating, I attempted a smile, failing miserably when my lips faltered into something closer to a grimace. Blast it all! Why did Cate have to leave!
The corners of his mouth twitched up. “Don’t worry, Miss Kilbrid,” he said reassuringly, reading either my mind or my pained expression. “I’ll not bite. Come have a seat. Lady Dinley will return shortly.” He walked to the end of the counter and waved me over. “This way.”
Seeing no other option, I took a deep breath and followed him into the adjoining room. The furnishings were simple, a sofa and armchair near the hearth, a wooden table and two chairs beneath the one window, and a bed along the far wall. Fabulous. Not only was I alone with a strange man, I was now standing in his private chamber.
“Sit there,’ he said, pointing to the sofa. “It’s the most comfortable seat in the room.”
A fire burned in the hearth, and I sat down on the cushion nearest the flames. A kettle was already steaming, having been set earlier on a trivet next to the coals. He picked it up with a thick pad, carried it to the table where he tossed a handful of tealeaves directly into the steaming water. While the tea seeped, he set out teacups and a plate of biscuits.
“They’re left over from breakfast,” he said in way of an apology as he passed the plate to me.
My stomach growled expectantly. I took a biscuit and bit into the sweet, buttery layers. “It’s delicious,” I said, surprised that a lone man would have something so tasty on hand. “Did your wife make them? I would like to thank her if she’s nearby.” It was a shot in the dark, and my one hope of redeeming what was becoming an increasingly awkward situation.
His mouth quirked, so quickly I almost missed it. “No one lives here but me, Miss Kilbrid. A boy delivers fresh bread and biscuits each morning from the bakehouse.”
I took another bite, stared down at the crumbs in my lap.
Straining the tea into cups, he handed one to me, then took the other and sat down in the armchair. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched me in between sips of tea. I picked up another biscuit and munched it nervously while glancing around the room, looking anywhere but at him. Most of the walls were bare, except for one that housed an impressive display of weaponry—spears, swords and knives held in place by long iron nails. A bookcase stood within easy reach of the armchair, its shelves filled to capacity, and another pile of books stacked haphazardly near his feet. Drawing from his immediate environment, I began to construct the most improbable character sketch. Mr. Tom Faber, smithy, scholar, warrior...
“Tell me,” he said, the suddenness of his words making me jump. “What was it like living in the Colonies?”
A lump of biscuit stuck in my throat. Washing it down with a mouthful of tea, I related the first thing that popped into my head. “Less crowded and a lot less smelly.”
He laughed and nodded his head in agreement. “So I’ve heard. What about the native people? Were you familiar with any of the tribes?”
“My family has always been close to the Lanape. They are the predominant tribe in Pennsylvania.”
“Are they a warring people?”
This seemed a natural question coming from a man who decorated with spears and swords. “They prefer peace and generally fight only when provoked. Some of the tribes farther north are rumored to be more war-like.”
Mr. Faber nodded again. I awaited another question when silence settled between us instead. The same sadness and longing returned to his eyes, which gleamed brighter from a moment ago as though coated with unshed tears.
Oh, dear. I shifted nervously on the sofa. “Are you unwell, Mr Faber? Shall I fetch some water?”
I started to rise, but he waved me back down. “You remind me of someone is all, Miss Kilbrid.” He blinked several times and his eyes cleared, though a general melancholy lingered in the air around him.
Someone deceased, I assumed. Most likely a sister or a sweetheart based on his reaction. Mr. Faber offered nothing further about the young lady, and I took a long sip of tea, all too aware that our situation had just moved from awkward to downright absurd. When the silence became too much, I set the empty cup aside and met his gaze the best I could under the circumstances.
“Have you and Lady Dinley been acquainted long?” I asked.
“Most of my life. We both came to London at around the same time.”
My relief was immediate and more evident than intended.
Mr. Faber arched an eyebrow. “Did you think she left you here without knowing my character?”
“The thought may have crossed my mind.”
He grinned at me. “Lady Dinley may not be perfect, but she is by no means careless when it comes to those in her charge.”
The shop door opened and a man’s voice carried into the back room. “Hey, Tom, ye in here? I’ve a broken axle on Beekon Street.”
Mr. Fabre stood and set his cup on the table. “Help yourself to more tea and biscuits. This may take a while.”
I listened as the two men conversed briefly about the axle, followed by the sound of the door closing when they left the shop. The fire crackled, offering the only noise in the otherwise quiet room. I looked around, a bit disgruntled to have been abandoned for a second time in one day. After wishing so adamantly to be away from Mr. Faber, it was somewhat strange to now feel a genuine loss of his company. My gaze came to the bookshelf and the stack of books on the floor. The one metal smith in Hopewell had been illiterate, and I found myself quite curious as to what Mr. Faber was reading.
The top book had a Gaelic title, Lebor Gabála Érenn. I translated the words with difficulty—The Book of the Taking of Ireland. Though my parents had taught me to speak passable Gaelic, reading was a challenge I had yet to master. I traded this book for the next one in the pile and read, De Natura Deorum. Good gracious! My Latin was even worse and I barely managed to decipher the words—On the Nature of the Gods. The writer was Cicero, a Greek philosopher I recognized from my father’s library at Brighmor. This too, I put back, returning to the sofa empty-handed and more than a little befuddled by the ever growing picture of Mr. Faber. To be sure, the man was proving quite an oddity. His appearance verged on wild, yet he owned books in both Gaelic and Latin.
Gauging by the light from the one window, the time was well past two o’clock. I sighed, bored by my own company and anxious for Cate’s return. The room did little to hold my attention, but at least it was toasty warm and the sofa a very comfortable pace to wait. So much, in fact, that the effects of last night’s escapade soon began to catch up to me. My eyes grew heavy and I leaned my head back, vowing to rest just for a moment...
Darkness shrouded the room when I woke, the only light coming from the fire in the hearth. Disoriented, I felt myself begin to panic, then remembered resting my head against the sofa in Mr. Faber’s private chamber. No longer sitting up, my head now rested on a pillow, a blanket tucked in around my s
houlders. I stared into the fire, unmoving as I slowly reoriented to my surroundings. A chair scraped against the wood floor behind me. A man and woman spoke, their voices low and familiar.
“I searched everywhere, but there was no sign of her,” Cate said. “It’s like she’s purposefully trying to bait me into a game of cat and mouse.”
“What are you going to do?” Mr. Faber asked.
Cate paused for a moment. “I don’t know, Tom,” she said tiredly. “I honestly don’t know.”
I shrugged off the blanket and sat up, embarrassed to be found in such a state. They turned to look at me from where they were sitting at the table, a candle and two wine cups between them. “When did you get back?” I asked.
“Not too long ago,” Cate said. “Thirty minutes at most.”
“You should have woken me sooner. What time is it?”
Mr. Faber pulled out a pocket watch. “Half past seven.”
Good Heavens! I had slept for five hours. “We should be going.” I stood and smoothed the wrinkles from my skirts.
Cate got up from the chair. “I couldn’t agree more. After this day, all I want is a warm supper and a hot bath. Good night, Mr. Faber.”
The carriage ride home passed in near silence. Once the footman closed the door, Cate apologized for leaving me at the smithy so long, then closed her eyes and withdrew into her thoughts. I watched her, my mind whirling with a thousand questions from this afternoon, all of them left unspoken and unanswered.
Sophie met us at the front door, a letter in hand for Cate. “Did anything arrive for me?” I asked. A note from Henry perhaps, begging for my forgiveness.
“No letters, miss,” she said. “But Lord Stroud called this afternoon. When you weren’t at home, he asked if you would be going to Kensington later tonight.”
I gave her a confused look. “Why would he think to expect me at the palace?”
Cate handed me the letter. “Because we’ve been invited to attend Princess Amelia tonight for cards and entertainment.” She sighed. “Go get changed, it appears our night has just begun.”
Chapter Nine
The Greater Fool
We arrived at Kensington Palace well past ten o’clock, freshly powdered and bound beyond reason into fresh silk gowns. Cate moved with enviable ease despite the tight lacings, making it appear that breathing was truly optional. I tried to emulate her example as we followed a footman to Amelia’s private apartments, located in the princess’s quarters of the palace. There we found the festivities in full bloom, the sound of laughter and music spilling into the courtyard from the balconies and open windows.
Cate drew closer, speaking in a low tone before we entered the main drawing room. “Everyone here tonight has learned of your invitation and is anxious to see how the princess reacts to your arrival. Do not be offended when no one addresses you at first. They will not make a move until after Amelia has shown her intentions.”
“I thought she only wanted to meet me?”
“As would I if her behavior hadn’t been so peculiar of late. All I can think is that her feelings for Henry may run deeper than I ever imagined. My advice is to expect the best, but be prepared for the worst.”
I swallowed hard. “Do you mean public humiliation?”
“At this point anything is possible,” Cate said. “And remember, Amelia is not called the prickly princess for nothing. She has a wicked sharp tongue and enjoys saying just as many shocking things to people’s faces as behind their backs.” With these words ringing in my ears, we passed through the open door into Amelia’s quarters.
At least two score people came to view in the large, ornately decorated room. About half of the guests were seated around a string quartet playing in the far corner. The rest were socializing in small groups. Such was the noise that only those nearest to us turned when our names were announced.
“There she is,” Cate said. “Standing by the balcony with Henry.”
I glanced toward them, my breath catching when I caught Henry’s eye. Our gaze remained locked for several long seconds before I forced my attention to the lady beside him. Even with a room between us, Amelia’s beauty was easy to discern, her fair hair and fine features all that I imagined in a princess.
“Put on your best smile,” Cate said, linking her arm in mine. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner I get a hot bath.”
After the incident at All Hallows, I wasn’t sure whom I most loathed to see at the moment, Amelia or Henry. As we made our way through the crowded room, people glanced at us, their conversations growing hushed. Lady Catherine Dinley was well known in London, which left little speculation as to my identity. A knot tightened in the pit of my stomach for what lay ahead. A prickly princess I could handle. But having already suffered through one embarrassment at Henry’s hands last night, I was in no mood to be publicly humiliated in front of a room full of nobles.
Henry leaned over and whispered to Amelia. She turned, watched as we crossed the remaining distance. Leaving a few feet between us, Cate curtsied and I quickly followed suit. “Good evening, your highness,” Cate said. “May I present Miss Selah Kilbrid.”
Amelia looked at me, her intelligent blue eyes giving nothing away as she studied my face. I waited for her to speak first, keeping my gaze level despite the awkwardness of our situation. She bore little resemblance to the king, and I assumed took after her mother with her perfect oval face, flawless skin and small, straight nose. Flaxen curls adorned the top of her head, lightly powdered and glittering with a smattering of small diamonds. A gown of amethyst and silver damask accentuated her bosom and trim waist before falling over wide, oval hoops. Amelia appeared the perfect princess from head to toe, composed and arrogant, claws sheathed but ready to strike.
“Henry,” she said at last, tapping him playfully on the arm with a closed fan. “Why didn’t you tell me that your friend was such a beauty? Were you afraid that I would be jealous?”
Henry was also looking at me, and I soon felt like a bug under a glass. “I told you everything of consequence, Amelia,” he said. “Miss Kilbrid’s beauty is the least of her qualities.”
Amelia pursed her mouth, apparently unsure how to take his words—either he had just paid me a great compliment or a terrible insult. She let the matter go, glancing instead at my full bosom, which was pushed up even higher than usual by the tight lacings. “I see you are adapting well to London fashion, Miss Kilbrid,” she said with a wry grin. “Much to every gentleman’s approval, no doubt. I do wonder who you think the greater fool—us women for being bound or the men we so easily bind?”
Even with Cates’s warning, I was somewhat surprised by Amelia’s boldness. For better or worse, her audaciousness sounded like a challenge and I couldn’t help but respond in kind. “In truth, your highness, I believe that honor belongs to anyone foolish enough to overlook the mind for the sake of the body.”
Amelia’s face broke into a wide smile. “What do you think, Henry, are these qualities of equal merit? Can a man be brought to heel by a woman’s brain as easily as he can by her bosom?”
My foot twitched with a sudden urge to kick Henry in the shins. “From what I’ve heard, Lord Fitzalan sees such feminine power as unnatural and does not allow himself to be overly affected by a woman’s physical presence. Isn’t that right, my lord?”
The muscles tensed in his jaw. “A man would have to be made of stone not to be affected by you, Miss Kilbrid.”
“Is that a confession, my lord?” I asked tersely.
Amelia narrowed her eyes and glanced between us, obviously displeased by our banter. Feeling someone brush against my arm, I turned to find Julian beside me. Even though we hadn’t spoken since our first meeting, the bond between us was irrefutable. I could see it in his face, an amused, knowing expression for the secret we shared.
“You are just in time
to settle a dispute, Lord Stroud,” Amelia said, drawing his attention. “We have been discussing Miss Kilbrid’s favorable attributes. As a man, do you find yourself drawn more readily to her brains or her bosom?”
My back stiffened and my face grew warm from this unwarranted attention, brought on by her subtle shifting of words. Julian glanced at me and met my eyes without looking any farther, though Amelia had practically invited him to do so.
“There is no need to answer, Lord Stroud,” Henry said, his voice holding a hint of warning. “The princess was only jesting.”
Julian kept his eyes on mine. “But I will answer, my lord. I say woe to the man who loves a woman blessed with both, for he shall never again be master of his own soul.”
The tension faded and I would have hugged Julian if not for the room full of people.
Amelia laughed appreciatively. “Well said, Lord Stroud. Flattery is such sweet balm to an awkward truth.” She glanced at me. “Please excuse us, Miss Kilbrid. Henry and I have promised to sit a game of whist with Lord and Lady Percival.”
As she started toward the card tables, Henry placed a firm hand on my lower back, leaning over to speak in my ear. “I will return shortly. In the meantime, I would rather you stayed away from Lord Stroud.”
“And I would rather you went to the devil.” I forced a tight smile. “It seems we are both to be disappointed tonight.”
He gave me a dark look, but I turned before he could say anything more. “It’s grown uncomfortably warm in here, Lord Stroud. Would you care to join me on the balcony?”
He extended his arm to me. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Kilbrid.”
Henry made a move to intercede when Cate stepped into his path. “Lord Fitzalan, I do so love whist. Might I watch you play?”
With Cate and Henry behind us, we stepped outside onto the balcony. The air was crisp, the sky full of stars. Turning toward the room, I stared at the card table where Amelia had taken a seat.
“She hates me,” I said sullenly.
