The Countess and the Frog

by Kenley Davidson

  “He seems even more so when Prince Rowan is in the vicinity,” Caspar observed, looking fixedly at his plate.

  Lizbet stared at him and sat up straighter in her chair. “You’ve noticed?” she asked, rather too forcefully. Her mother cleared her throat gently, probably hoping to recall them all to a more appropriate topic of conversation, but Lizbet was too intrigued to let it drop. “I cannot help but wonder if he is more than usually worried about being made a fool of by his brother’s friends. Or perhaps it is something more. Something between the two of them that they simply cannot share with me, either because I am their aunt or because I am a woman.”

  “And here’s the dessert!” Lizbet’s mother sounded vastly relieved by the appearance of the cut glass custard dishes, a relief that lasted only as long as it took for her to notice that there were only three. “But, Parrish”—she turned to the footman who served them—“I’m quite sure I gave instructions that there were four for dinner this evening.”

  “Yes, madam.” The footman bowed as he placed the third custard on Rory’s plate. “But I was instructed by Miss Lizbet personally that there needed only be three custards. That your guest did not prefer the dish.”

  “Lizbet?” her mother queried, wide eyed and confused.

  “Yes, Mother,” Lizbet replied meekly. “I’m afraid I did.”

  Caspar burst out laughing, and, this time, Lizbet joined him, leaving the confused Vanholms to stare at the both of them as if they had lost their senses.

  Their after dinner conversation proved quite convivial, and Caspar found himself relaxing as he rarely did in company. The Vanholms were kind and did not stand overmuch on ceremony. Lizbet’s mother seemed torn between exasperation at Lizbet’s unorthodox approach to life and pride at her daughter’s independence and accomplishments.

  They had just begun a spirited conversation on the topic of books when a visitor was announced. Judging by the looks traded by the elder Vanholms, neither of them expected anyone to be calling at that hour.

  “Drat,” said Lizbet.

  Sure enough, the man who entered was familiar to Caspar and had clearly not come to chat.

  “My apologies, my lady.” Brawley bowed to Sybile, and then to Lizbet before stating his business. “I’m afraid I must beg you to return to the palace. Prince Ramsey has gone missing from his room. His Majesty is growing irate at the lack of resolution in this matter and is on the verge of becoming involved himself.”

  Caspar heard Lizbet gasp quietly and observed that she looked more than a little unsettled by this news.

  “Double drat,” she growled. “I assume you rode?”

  Brawley nodded.

  “Very well. Father, may I borrow a horse? I would walk, but that would hardly be appropriate this time of night.”

  “I would be happy to offer you a place in my carriage,” Caspar found himself saying, wondering whether she would reject him out of habit. For a man and a woman to travel alone together was not quite the thing unless they were at least courting, if not outright engaged.

  “Oh, thank you!” She gave every evidence of relief. “That will be much faster. And it is late enough, I doubt we will be seen.”

  “Lizbet!” her mother protested, clearly embarrassed on her daughter’s behalf.

  “Oh, Mother, it is quite all right. The count knows very well what is at stake.” She turned her eyes on Caspar in question.

  “Of course, Lady Vanholm,” he replied, forcing a smile. “Time is of the essence. No insult was meant and none was taken. We are not so well acquainted that we would wish to be a source of gossip.”

  Caspar’s carriage was immediately called for and Brawley departed to prevent catastrophe until Lizbet was able to return. It was the work of only a few moments for Lizbet to repack her things, so she was downstairs well before Parrish stepped into the drawing room to announce that the count’s carriage was now ready.

  Their journey back was not a long one, but Caspar felt as though he ought to take advantage of it somehow. He would not likely have many opportunities to speak to Lizbet at all in the future, let alone speak to her without anyone else present.

  “Miss Vanholm, as we are friends now, I must ask you whether there is any way I might be of assistance.”

  It was too dark to see her face, but he could hear her sigh from across the carriage.

  “I wish it were so easy.” A pause. “Count Norelle, how deeply are you in His Majesty’s confidence?”

  Caspar considered what she might be asking. “There was a time when I would have called myself one of his closest friends. We used to discuss things that were of interest to us both and not merely matters of business that required attention. But now… We are still friends, and I do not believe he has lost faith in me, but I fear we share little except concern for the kingdom.”

  Another sigh, almost a huff. She probably understood well enough.

  “I wish…” A long silence followed. “Boys need a father,” she said at last, almost reluctantly. “And not only when they are in trouble. I fear if I do not settle this at once, it is unlikely to end well.”

  Her statements evidenced a greater degree of willingness to trust him than Caspar had expected. But she did not ask for help, or for his opinion, so he remained silent.

  “I want to be fair, as a mother would be, but they don’t make that easy. At times like this, every choice feels like the wrong one.”

  “I believe you could do worse than to trust your instincts,” Caspar finally offered.

  “Even if my instincts suggest what there is no evidence to support?” she responded dryly.

  “Sometimes, even then.”

  “I don’t remember how my parents responded to these sorts of crises,” Lizbet admitted. “I was so much younger than my other siblings, they never really treated me as a sister. More like an amusing pet or a doll. Someone they could choose to ignore whenever they wished. I’m not sure I ever heard my twin brothers argue, and Hugh was always so ridiculously good…”

  “It isn’t your fault,” Caspar told her firmly. He could almost see her trying to blame herself for the boys’ behavior. Trying to work out what she might have done wrong. “The fact that they are not the best of friends does not mean that you did something wrong. They lost their mother at a young age, and essentially lost their father at the same time. And they are very different from one another. Even brothers can have so little in common as to make it difficult to be friends.”

  “But how do you know?” Lizbet sounded less than reassured. “Aren’t you an only child?”

  Caspar winced in the darkness of the carriage. “Yes,” he admitted. “My parents desperately wanted more children, but the three my mother bore after me all died in infancy.”

  “I’m so sorry!” Lizbet leaned forward to touch his hand in sympathy, and though it surprised him, he made no move to pull away. “I should not have been so flippant. That must have been terribly hard for your parents.”

  “It was. But when I spoke of sibling disagreements, I was speaking of my father’s experience. He had two younger brothers, whom he loved deeply, but who never forgave him for inheriting everything. My father offered them money, positions, anything he could think of, but that only seemed to make it worse.”

  “They couldn’t accept love for its own sake,” Lizbet murmured, and then sighed again. “Sometimes I feel as though that is where Rowan’s difficulties start. He does not understand how to be loved. Not by me, not by Ramsey. He tests us, to know where the limits of our love might lie, or what might drive us to rescind it.”

  “And yet he is the more popular of the two,” Caspar mused. “It is a wonder Ramsey does not resent him for it.”

  “Ramsey is not a saint,” Lizbet replied, “and I doubt that he is entirely without resentment. He merely loves more. And he has no desire to be popular. I believe they simply do not and cannot understand what motivates the other and it causes them to be at odds even when they do not intend to be.”

 
; “And you, Miss Vanholm?” As much as Caspar cared about whatever was troubling the fascinating and lovely young woman who shared his carriage, he did not intend to spend the entire ride to Evenburg talking about her nephews. He wanted a chance to know more about her. To prove that he was more than an old man. “What is it that motivates you? Why do you give up your own life in the service of a kingdom that may never truly appreciate your sacrifices?”

  “Why do you?” she retorted, with more sarcasm than heat. “Why does anyone?” She was quiet for a moment. “I suppose at first it was because they needed me. I had never been truly needed before. Never had anyone who seemed to notice or care much what I did or where I went.”

  Caspar didn’t need to see her face to know that the lack had hurt her.

  “Not that my parents didn’t love me,” she assured him. “They did, but they were old enough when I came along that I suspect I exhausted them. They had four other children and I was the least conformable of the lot.”

  He laughed as he recalled his first meeting with her. “Tell me, Miss Vanholm, did you ever learn to swim?”

  “Of course I did,” she responded promptly. “I threatened the twins with several of their least savory secrets until they agreed to teach me.”

  Silence fell inside the carriage for a few moments, and the only sound was the rattling of cobblestones under the wheels. Caspar briefly regretted bringing up that first meeting. It would only serve to remind Lizbet of the vast difference in their ages.

  “What about you?” she asked suddenly. “Do you regret not having siblings? Were you terribly lonely growing up?”

  He considered the question. Had he been? “I suppose I was,” he said. “There were no other children my age in the neighborhood, which is how I ended up being acquainted with His Majesty during a summer visit. Neither of us had anyone else to talk to. But I had books and my mother taught me to enjoy music and art, though I have no talent for either. My father taught me to manage his holdings and do my duty as a landowner, so I was never bored. But lonely? Yes.”

  Lizbet felt a surge of fellow feeling for the man across the carriage. Perhaps it was merely sympathy, but she thought it was something more. She knew what it was to grow up more or less alone. Surrounded by people, true, but alone nonetheless. It was one of the reasons she felt so strongly for Ramsey. He, too, seemed alone no matter how many other people were in the room.

  Caspar, she realized, had far greater depths than his quiet, peaceable exterior would suggest. He had grasped some of the issues with her nephews after spending very little time with them, and seemed to see into her own heart far too clearly as well. He listened attentively and responded thoughtfully, and did not brush aside her thoughts as unworthy of his attention. Perhaps, she admitted to herself, age was not such a terrible affliction after all if it actually made one wiser.

  The thought struck her forcefully, but she did not have time to consider why as the carriage lurched to halt at the front entrance of Evenburg. The moment felt awkward for some reason, and Lizbet could think of no appropriate way to say goodbye, so she opened the door and stepped outside, followed closely by Caspar. The moment her feet hit the ground, however, she froze.

  Late as it was, a trio of persons was just leaving, and stood outside the main entrance, waiting for their own carriage: Miss Quidsleigh, her sister Brissette, and their mother. The Quidsleighs, Lizbet knew all too well, were possibly the worst gossips in the entire Evenleigh court. Lizbet and Caspar were caught and if they weren’t careful, the two of them could soon be at the center of a ridiculous scandal that neither of them could afford.

  So, with no better ideas to hand, she turned to Caspar and curtsied, then offered him a brilliant smile. “I thank you, Count Norelle, for a lovely evening. I look forward to seeing you again.”

  The observers appeared to be frozen, watching to see what would happen next. No doubt they wondered what the court’s most ineligible bachelor had been doing, sharing a carriage with Evenleigh’s most confirmed spinster. It must be a scandal in the making. Neither of them could possibly be contemplating marriage.

  “And I you, Miss Vanholm.” Caspar, thankfully, played along and kept it simple, bowing over her hand with a smile lurking at the corner of his lips.

  Praying their charade would permit her to pass unquestioned, Lizbet turned and swept towards the door. She was, of course, waylaid, by Miss Quidsleigh, an elaborately gowned bundle of bright-eyed curiosity.

  “Why Lizbet, I declare, I see you so rarely, I should scarcely have recognized you!” Prissella Quidsleigh stepped forward to clasp hands with her, despite Lizbet’s lack of enthusiasm. “Perhaps I should visit the library more often so that we could find time to catch up.”

  It was a deliberate barb. As if any debutante with the slightest pretensions to popularity would be found dead in the library. Reading. The horror.

  Very well. If Miss Quidsleigh wanted to cross blades, Lizbet would be happy to comply.

  “Oh, I would never expect you to put yourself to such a degree of trouble,” Lizbet responded sweetly. “The library can be a long walk to take for no reason, especially in those lovely new heeled shoes you ladies are wearing. Heavens, however do you keep from tripping?”

  Prissella blinked a few times, perhaps uncertain whether she had just been insulted, but recovered quickly. “I say, why did you never tell me how things stood with you and the count?” she enquired coyly. “I declare, if I had a suitor, I should be the first to tell every one of my friends.”

  For just an instant, Lizbet felt cornered. How to answer such an insinuation? Prissella not only implied that Lizbet and Caspar were courting but that Lizbet was too ashamed to tell anyone. She couldn’t deny they were in a relationship now without some sort of scandal, but she couldn’t confirm it without involving Caspar.

  What would he want her to do? She glanced over at him but his face offered no clues. He was watching her, not in confusion or dismay, but with every appearance of absolute trust in her judgment. Well, that was no help at all. Even if it was a little endearing. She hoped she wasn’t about to make a mistake that would haunt them both.

  “As you say,” she responded brightly, “I haven’t seen you in an age, Prissy. I suppose our courtship has been so fast, I simply didn’t think to tell everyone. And”—she leaned closer as though in strictest confidence—“I must tell you, I wasn’t at all sure my friends would be as pleased as I am.”

  Prissella appeared utterly nonplussed.

  “I’m afraid,” Lizbet went on, “not everyone at court has been very accepting. Caspar is one of the finest gentlemen of my acquaintance, but he has been quite unfairly snubbed by people known to us both, though I shall not stoop to name them. I am so happy”—she reached out to press the younger woman’s hand—“to find that you, at least, have been able to perceive how truly worthy he is.”

  “I…” Miss Prissella Quidsleigh had perceived no such thing but there was no polite way to say it. She glanced over at the man in question, as if to figure out whether there was another man hiding behind him, because surely Count Norelle could not be such a paragon as Lizbet described.

  Caspar bowed politely when the dumbstruck damsel glanced his way, but said nothing.

  “Oh my,” Lizbet exclaimed, as though she had suddenly remembered something. “I would so enjoy talking with you further, but I am afraid I am needed by my nephews. Boys, you know? Forever in one scrape or another.” She smiled, curtsied again, and walked away with her head held high, hoping Caspar would have enough sense to leave before any of their audience enquired very closely about their fictitious relationship.

  Lizbet decided it was fortunate that the immediate catastrophe would prevent her from considering very deeply the consequences for what she had just done. It wasn’t as if she’d had any choice. If she had not claimed the count as a suitor, there would have been at least a small scandal, which was a great deal too much in her position. This way, perhaps they could simply put it about in a f
ew weeks that they did not suit and that would be that. But in the meantime, she felt a small surge of guilt over having perhaps caused Caspar to hope unfairly. She would have to seek him out as soon as possible to explain and hope he was not angry.

  Somehow, though, she knew he would not blame her, though she couldn’t say how she knew. It was a strange, fluttery thought, so she returned her attention to the problem at hand.

  When she arrived at the princes’ rooms, it was a near repeat of the earlier scene. Brawley stood, arms folded, in the middle of the receiving room, with the boys facing him. Ramsey, at least, had come back from wherever he had disappeared to.

  “You have, between the two of you, contrived to ruin a lovely family dinner and create an incredibly uncomfortable and unnecessary situation that will require a great deal of effort to extricate myself.” Lizbet stated the facts without bothering to sound motherly or placating. It was entirely too late for that approach. “I find that I do not appreciate your antics in the slightest.” She moved to stand beside Brawley and fixed each of them with her most imperious stare in turn. “Perhaps you will be good enough to explain.”

  Brawley spoke up first. “Only one of them is talking, my lady. I’ve threatened my worst, but I can’t force him. Perhaps you can do better than I.”

  Lizbet looked at her younger nephew. Sure enough, his hands were folded and his face was white, but he wore a look she recognized as immovable stubbornness. His own father could not have done better.

  “Aunt Lizbet?” Rowan spoke up quietly.

  “Speak.”

  “I think… I believe I know why Ramsey disappeared tonight.”

  Ramsey shot him a tortured look but still said nothing.

  “He went to take the sword back.”

  “And you think this why?” Lizbet demanded. “Did you see him take it or observe it in his possession?”