The Countess and the Frog

by Kenley Davidson

  The Countess and the Frog

  A Novella of Andar

  Kenley Davidson

  Page Nine Press

  Copyright © 2016 Kenley Davidson

  All rights reserved.

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  Published by: Page Nine Press

  Editing by: Janie Dullard at Lector’s Books

  Cover Design, Layout, & Formatting by: Page Nine Media

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  This is an original work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the creative imagination of the author or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, institutions, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used, reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner without the written consent of the author, excepting short quotations used for the purposes of review or commentary about the work.

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  http://KenleyDavidson.com

  But when the princess awoke… she was astonished to see, instead of the frog, a handsome prince, gazing on her with the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

  Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, The Frog Prince

  Contents

  The Countess And The Frog

  Thank You

  The Series

  Also by Kenley Davidson

  About the Author

  The Countess And The Frog

  Had anyone bothered to ask, Lizbet Vanholm would have asserted that being related to the royal family was the plague of her existence. The Vanholms had lived adjacent to the Tremontaines for longer than even Lizbet’s parents had been alive, but the two families had never been more than casually acquainted. Their children had, over the years, engaged in the good-natured rivalry and harmless pranks that are usual to childhood, but in general, the proximity of royalty had not seemed to affect the Vanholms very much. At least not until Arabelle had taken it into her head to get married, and had chosen to accept the suit of Hollin Tremontaine, of all people.

  Prior to her sister’s marriage, Lizbet had been able to do pretty much whatever she pleased, even if what she pleased did not always suit her mother’s idea of what was appropriate. She was forever finding herself compared to her four, much older siblings, who had all turned out exactly as they should. Arabelle, though she was not known for great beauty, was a well-behaved girl with a strong sense of style, who always knew what to say and how. Hugh was dignified and solemn and did exactly as he was told. The twins, Ansel and Edson, were terribly handsome and got into a great deal of the expected and permissible kinds of trouble. Lizbet… Well, Lizbet was different. She was neither good-looking, nor well-behaved, nor dignified, and rarely did anything expected.

  But now, different simply wasn’t allowed. She was sister-in-law to the king, and therefore must behave with the greatest decorum. Even if she was only eight years old.

  Lizbet liked to read, and she liked being out of doors. She preferred keeping busy to sitting still (unless she had a book in hand) and enjoyed the company of animals more than that of most people. Animals were good at listening when she had something to say. No one in her family had ever seemed quite able to hear her, even before their social elevation had brought a bewildering number of visitors to the doorstep of their not entirely fashionable country estate. The overwhelming number of social calls meant that tea and luncheon became far more formal affairs, and parties were the rule rather than the exception. And on all of those occasions, Lizbet was expected to be seen and be silent. She had never especially enjoyed being looked at, but she particularly hated being treated like a child.

  Which explained why she was hiding in a tree instead of sitting in the parlor with her mother’s morning visitors. Lizbet was pretty sure she’d seen a duchess and at least two countesses among them. In her experience, the higher a visitor’s rank, the harder they pinched the cheeks of children unwise enough to remain within pinching distance.

  So she had snuck away to her second favorite hiding spot—the wide branch of a tree that overhung a placid curve in the brook. Its waters marked the northern edge of her father’s estate, the border they shared with the currently absent Tremontaines.

  Lying back on the branch, Lizbet sighed and wiggled around until she was comfortable. Her mother would have a fit if she could see what her youngest child was doing to her fancy taffeta dress, but Lizbet didn’t care. Before Belle had married, no one had bothered to notice what Lizbet wore or how dirty it was. Now that she was related to royalty, she had to wear expensive clothes every day and would be subjected to a lecture if she didn’t manage to keep them clean. To her dismay, every one of her fancy new dresses was trimmed with lace. White lace. They also itched, and were almost impossible to climb trees in.

  But at least they still had pockets, as evidenced by the annoying lump under her skirts. Lizbet reached into the offending pocket and found… the stupid ball. So that was where she had hidden it.

  The ball was about the size of her fist and almost entirely plated in gold. There were leaves and animals carved into the surface, with crystals for flowers and for the animals’ eyes. It had been a present from her new brother-in-law on the occasion of his marriage. As if she was still such a baby that she played with baby toys.

  But it was a present from the king, and when one received a present from the king, one was properly grateful. And one most certainly did not make a face at it behind his back.

  But Lizbet could make a face at it now and so she did. At least she’d discovered its hiding place before someone demanded to know where it was. Tossing it idly up in the air, she wondered why someone would give such an expensive bauble to a young girl. Perhaps because he didn’t know any better?

  King Hollin was an only child, so the Vanholms were probably the closest thing he’d ever had to younger siblings. Apparently he had even played with them when Arabelle was younger. Lizbet’s first memories of him were of a very tall, fierce-looking man who was gruffly kind, even if he was terribly old. Thirty at least.

  Lizbet tossed the ball up again, this time bouncing it off the branch just over her head. She giggled. Her mother would probably faint if she could see her. The ball made a heavy clanking noise every time it hit the tree. If she wasn’t careful, it might even knock one of the crystals out of its setting and then she really would be in trouble.

  One last bounce. The crystals winked at her as the ball flew up, hit the nearest branch and flew back towards her hand. But this time, she miscalculated the catch. The ball flashed past her open hand, past her face, and, before she could do much more than let out a startled shriek, disappeared with a splash into the dark waters of the stream.

  Lizbet considered screaming, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. It certainly wouldn’t help her get the ball back.

  She clambered down from her perch even less gracefully than she had ascended and crouched on the muddy bank, heedless of her boots and crumpled taffeta skirts. It was no use. No matter how hard she stared, the depth of the water defeated her gaze and there was simply no way she could get any closer. Her mother considered it far too unladylike for her daughters to learn how to swim.

  And yet, it was going to be far worse if Lizbet ever had to admit that she had lost the king’s gift by dropping it in the brook. Her mother would be upset, her father would be disappointed, and there would be tears. Better, perhaps, to drown than to offend the royal family.

  She was just unbuttoning her boots when the sound of hoofbeats intruded on her distress.

  Lizbet looked up, across the stream, where a man rode towards her on a fine black horse. He wore a very proper jacket and cravat and there were spectacles perched on his nose, but his dark brown hair was overlon
g and a bit windblown. He did not appear at all shocked to find her up to her ankles in mud.

  “Are you all right, my lady?” The man’s voice was pitched soothingly, much the same as Lizbet herself might have sounded had one of her dogs or cats been in distress. Belatedly, she realized that she had been scowling. Smoothing all expression from her face, she stood to face the intruder haughtily.

  “Quite all right, thank you. Now please go away.”

  “You don’t look all right,” the man insisted. “You looked upset, and rather as though you were contemplating a swim. I can assure you that swimming is difficult enough to do when you’re feeling perfectly tranquil.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know you,” Lizbet insisted. “And I know very well that the Tremontaines live on that side of the brook. We’ve been neighbors for ages so I’m quite sure you’re not a Tremontaine. Are you trespassing?” She hoped she sounded imperious.

  “No, merely a friend of the family,” he said easily. “My name is Norelle. Caspar Norelle. His Majesty invited me to break my journey at Tremontaine House on my way to Evenleigh.”

  Lizbet looked at him again. He was a little younger than the king, but still old. At least twenty. And he wasn’t really even handsome. Probably a clerk of some kind. Perhaps he would help her, if she was very, very clever.

  “I,” she announced solemnly, “am in need of a knight. But I’m sure you won’t do. Perhaps you really should go away.”

  The man dismounted and walked to the opposite bank, stopping when the toes of his boots reached the edge of the water.

  “Is it the spectacles?” he asked gravely. “I’ve been told they make me look far more studious than I actually am. Gets me into such trouble, you have no notion.”

  “Really?” Lizbet found she was interested in spite of herself. “Do you think if I got some spectacles that people might listen to me?”

  “Perhaps,” the man allowed, with a brief nod of assent. “If that is what you want most. I think I might prefer not to be noticed at all.”

  “Well, yes,” Lizbet agreed. “Sometimes I prefer that too. But when I have something to say, I do wish people would pay attention. And not act like I’m just a baby who doesn’t know anything. I do read, you know.”

  “I’m sure that you do,” the man said, quite seriously. “What is your favorite book?”

  “Oh!” Lizbet could not remember ever being asked that before. “I love reading about history. I memorized all the kings and queens when I was five. But I think my favorite is Captain Dyerthorn’s Tales From a Voyage Around the World. Even if the stories are mostly made up as my father says.”

  “Perhaps they are,” the man admitted. “But they are exciting all the same. That’s one of my favorites too.”

  “Really?” Lizbet looked up at him in surprise. “I didn’t think someone as old as you would like such stuff. Aren’t you supposed to read only dull things?”

  The man burst out laughing. “Some days it certainly seems so. Which is probably why Captain Dyerthorn is still a favorite. Now,” he continued, “perhaps I don’t seem very knightly, but I may be able to assist you all the same. What service do you require, my lady?”

  Lizbet bit her lip and thought. She didn’t know him, but if the king had invited this Caspar Norelle, he was probably not dangerous. He might be able to help. But he might also tell the king about what she had done. It was a terrible risk either way.

  “You would have to promise,” she said fiercely, “never to tell anyone. It would be a secret you must keep forever. On pain of…” She thought for a moment. “I would be forced to denounce you. And my sister is the queen, so she would probably do something horrible.”

  “So sworn.” The man laid a fist to his heart. “I shall never reveal your secrets to a living soul.”

  “All right.” Lizbet took a deep breath. “I dropped my gold ball into the water. It was a present from the king when he married my sister. I hate it, but I was hiding in the tree from those horrible old ladies having tea with Mother and I found it in my pocket and I was playing with it. And now it’s on the bottom of the stream, and I’m going to be in such trouble if anyone finds out.”

  The man regarded the stream. “Is it deep?” he asked solemnly. “It certainly looks cold.”

  “How should I know?” Lizbet asked crossly. “I’m not allowed to learn how to swim.”

  “Well, no sense putting it off,” the man said cheerfully. He removed his coat and cravat and placed them over his saddle. His spectacles he tucked into a pocket of the coat. The black horse acted as though this were an everyday occurrence and went on munching grass. “Now, before I go in, I must beg a favor of my lady, as all brave knights do.”

  Lizbet nodded. It seemed only fair.

  “I would beg you to grant me a tour of your library,” he said, quite unexpectedly. “I hear it is finer even than the one at Tremontaine House.”

  Lizbet narrowed her eyes at him. “How do you know about our library?” she asked suspiciously.

  “By reputation, of course,” he responded promptly. “If your sister is married to His Majesty, you must be a Vanholm, and your father is known for his collection of many fine books.”

  “Lizbet Vanholm,” she admitted.

  “And I am most pleased to meet you.” The man bowed. “Do we have an agreement?”

  “Yeeees.” Lizbet considered what sort of questions her parents might be likely to ask when a strange man came asking for a tour of the library. “But you mustn’t let on that we have met before.”

  “You may trust in my discretion,” he assured her with a crooked grin. And then, before Lizbet could think better of it, he simply dove into the river.

  It seemed forever before he surfaced again. Lizbet had begun to feel rather frightened and was wondering how much trouble she would be in for drowning a friend of the king, when his head emerged from the murky depths.

  She gasped. A sound that was soon followed by a squeal of joy when she saw the ball clutched between his fingers.

  He offered it to her with a smile.

  “Thank you!” she cried. “Oh thank you! Now perhaps I can escape without a lecture.”

  “It was my pleasure, fair maiden,” Caspar said. “You may expect me tomorrow for my tour.”

  “Yes, I will!” she called back at him, for she was already racing home, relieved beyond words to have regained her gift. “Only remember not to tell anyone!”

  She was too far away to hear when Caspar Norelle looked down at his sodden clothes and began to laugh at himself.

  FOURTEEN YEARS LATER…

  Caspar Norelle left the council room behind as quickly as he could without giving the impression that he was running away. If he wasn’t a coward, he would head for the gates and just keep walking. But he was either too great a coward or too complacent to change, so he went for a walk in the garden instead to clear his mind.

  He felt a thousand years old after these meetings. Arguing had never been his favorite thing. Dressing up in order to sit in an uncomfortable chair and argue for hours at a time with people who should have known better ranked somewhere below listening to his mother rail at him for his failure to marry.

  Removing his spectacles, Caspar rubbed at his eyes and brushed his hair away from his forehead. His mother had reminded him only recently that he was going quite gray at the temples and would soon look more haggard than distinguished. It was only his mother who had ever thought him distinguished anyway, and Caspar couldn’t really bring himself to care. The other councilors didn’t notice what his hair looked like, and he’d had little luck with women when he was twenty, so he doubted a few gray hairs were going to make anything worse. Though if he remained on the king’s council, there were going to be more than a few. Caspar fully expected to be entirely gray within the year.

  But if he quit, poor Hollin would have very few voices of reason left. After all of his friend’s losses, Caspar could not imagine abandoning him now.

  The pres
ent king had no siblings and had lost his parents at barely thirty years of age. Fortunately, he’d had Arabelle, his childhood friend, and their love had sustained him through the loss. At least until she, too, had followed his parents into death after only nine years.

  The princes were too young to be of much comfort, so Hollin had thrown himself into running the kingdom with the single-minded zeal of a man attempting to bury his grief in work. He seemed likely to bury the rest of the council with him.

  Caspar had been a part of the council for nearly ten years, after his scholarly work on the foundation of Andar’s monarchy had reminded Hollin of his existence. The two of them had once been close, but had barely spoken since Hollin had been forced to take up the reins of the kingdom. Despite their estrangement, Caspar had felt unable to say no when Hollin asked for his aid. A man could not easily refuse his king, and even less easily could he refuse his mother, who had insisted that her poor unattached son would finally have numerous opportunities to find a wife during his stay at court.

  But Caspar was simply too old. Or perhaps the unattached ladies were too young. It wasn’t unheard of for a man of even his thirty-seven years to marry a young woman barely come of age, but Caspar had never felt as though he had anything in common with the debutantes looking for a husband. He simply couldn’t enter into their concerns, any more than they could enter into his, and the lack of any shared interests seemed a poor foundation for a lifelong relationship.

  His mother would say he was thinking too hard, but Caspar had never been able to consider that a bad thing.

  Ahead of him in the corridor, Caspar caught a glimpse of a familiar threesome: two adolescent boys—one blond, one dark-haired—and an older man in the uniform of a castle guard. Brawley, his name was. The captain of the princes’ personal guard and the man primarily responsible for their safety, especially when they were at Evenburg. The princes were usually not in residence for long, as they spent most of their time at Tremontaine House.