Flora thought this was rich coming from someone whose father was positioned on the interview committee. If that wasn’t a base advantage, she didn’t know what was.
“She has an advantage already, because she knows the Prince personally,” Dorothea spoke up. “Her mother doesn’t need to help her with her style—she could show up in a dress that’s three years old and threadbare and still finish among the top contenders, because she’s already the favorite!”
“It makes us all have to try that much harder!” said Augustina resentfully.
“Do we?” asked Flora curiously.
Three pairs of eyes turned and stared at her.
“Do you actually want to marry the Eternal Prince?” she asked. “It seems like a very unromantic way of getting a husband.”
Dorothea and Augustina deferred their answers to Georgiana.
“Dear Flora,” she said unpleasantly, her voice infused with sweetness, “you don’t seem to understand. How well we perform in this tournament will determine our eligibility not just to marry the Prince, but to marry anyone of consequence at all. Anyone who performs poorly will have to watch her social status tumble into oblivion while other more worthy candidates rise in the eyes of the entire nation.”
Flora had not considered this broader scope of the tournament. When Charlie had assured her that Viola would become consort, she had naïvely assumed that that would be the end of things. In this new light, she thought it no wonder that so many eager young men had come to Mrs. O’s gala. With practically every young woman in the nation on display, they could pick those that suited them best, and with minimal effort.
While Flora wasn’t on the lookout for a husband, she had determined to establish her family’s reputation for good. This was a bothersome development.
“I see,” she said, her voice carefully benign. “So this would be the perfect opportunity for someone from relative obscurity to establish a position of consequence, I suppose.”
Her implied meaning did not go unnoticed. Georgiana’s brows lowered and her mouth flattened to a grim line, but only briefly. “I suppose there will be those grasping individuals who don’t know their place,” she said with a negligent shrug.
“Yes,” Flora agreed. “Such candidates should make this quite an interesting event to watch, don’t you think?”
Chapter Sixteen: Quite the Intimate Interview
I have not prepared for my interview. Truth be told, I don’t have a clue how to prepare. Mrs. O sent correspondence to all of her conservatory subscribers with a handful of sample questions and a promise of more available in the conservatory’s reading room. (Who even knew the place had such a room to begin with? I certainly never heard of anyone going in there.) I don’t really see the point of the sample questions, though. Unless Mrs. O has spoken directly with members of the committee, how could she possibly know what they intend to ask?
Actually, I wouldn’t put it past her to have tracked some of them down. She’s a very determined woman. I still have no intention of going back to the conservatory just to read her list, though.
I suppose I’ll just have to keep my wits about me and answer the committee’s questions as best I can. What a novel idea.
“Miss Dalton, please be seated.”
Flora had not resided in town long enough to recognize most of the lords on sight, but she knew Lord Winthrop in an instant: he held his head at the same imperious angle that Georgiana did, as though he was looking down his nose at everyone he met. The commanding tone of voice, too, matched Miss Winthrop’s to a tee, though his was naturally an octave or two lower.
Flora primly obeyed the command, the very image of decorum as she perched on the chair available for her. She focused her attention solely on the interviewing committee and particularly on Lord Winthrop, who sat in the middle of the table and seemed to be the presiding figure.
The committee consisted of five people: four men and one woman. Flora had surveyed them all as she entered. Mrs. Moreland was the primary object of her curiosity, but she knew better than to let her gaze linger. Besides, her very brief glance showed her all she really needed to know.
Elizabeth Moreland was a beautiful woman, with dark hair and lovely eyes and such a modish air about her that Flora could easily believe that even Georgiana would acknowledge her as a paragon of style. Her coloring was different from Viola’s but there was a resemblance in the shape of her features—the curve of her cheek and the contour of her mouth, primarily. Edmund had a similar mouth, though his was a bit wider. Flora thought that Charlie probably took more after his father, though his coloring was similar to Mrs. Moreland’s.
The men of the committee were all dressed in the black robes of Parliament, an overt sign of their station. Flora did not know any of their names (except Lord Winthrop, and even that was more of a hunch than sure knowledge). They did not interest her very much, either. Rather, they served as something mundane upon which she could train her gaze rather than marvel at the opulent room around her. The banquet hall, which was typically used only for state functions, was enormous in size and grand in scope. For Flora, who had never seen its majesty before, the architectural details were almost overwhelming. She could have looked at them for hours.
Hence her need not to look at all, lest she appear to be a curious child rather than a candidate for consort to the Eternal Prince.
For this occasion, the vastness of the hall held only the committee’s table at its head and the one chair where she now sat. Flora kept her spine straight as she waited for the questions to begin. Lord Winthrop had his eyes upon her file, but the other three men scrutinized her critically. Mrs. Moreland was more demure in her observations, but, unlike the others, she actually wrote something on the papers in front of her. Flora hoped it was something favorable. Mary had taken great pains this morning to ensure that her hair was perfect and her dress just so, but half a day had passed already and Flora thought she might have begun to fray around the edges.
“Flora Louise Dalton,” Lord Winthrop read aloud from the file. He laid it flat on the table and pinned a steely glare upon her, as though she were on trial. “You were given the task of ordering these applications for consort, were you not?”
He already knew the answer, of course. Flora withheld the instinctive sarcasm that leapt to her mind and answered with a modest, “Yes.”
“Do you believe that task has given you an advantage in this selection process?” he asked bluntly.
Flora blinked, surprised at such an impertinent question. “I don’t believe the ordering of applications has any bearing on the scores that each applicant will receive,” she replied diplomatically. “That I accomplished the task gives me no more advantage in the outcome than your sitting upon this committee gives your daughter.”
A couple of the lords snorted. Lord Winthrop looked offended. “Are you implying that I will show favoritism to my own daughter above the other candidates?”
“No, just the opposite,” said Flora steadily. “I’m certain you’ll behave in an entirely objective manner, just as all the committee members will, just as I did when I ordered the applications. That’s only fair.”
“Miss Dalton,” the lord at the right end of the table suddenly spoke up, before Lord Winthrop could get his nose too out of joint, “you only recently moved to the city with your father. How have you enjoyed your stay here thus far?”
“It’s…” Flora hesitated, but then plunged ahead with the most positive thing she could say while still being truthful. “Life here is different than what I’m used to. The countryside is more open and peaceful. Here everyone seems to hurry from one thing to the next. It’s different.”
“You don’t like it, then?”
That was a more direct approach, but Flora still felt the need to dodge. “I’m still growing accustomed to it. I think it’s only natural that I should miss my old home. I lived there all my life before I came here. I’ve had opportunities here that I wouldn’t have had in the countryside
, though, so I can see the benefit of moving here—and certainly I’m glad to be able to support my father in his new office.”
That lord scribbled something on the page before him. The man that sat between Lord Winthrop and Mrs. Moreland took the momentary lull as his turn to ask a question. “Miss Dalton, if the Eternal Prince were to choose you as his consort, what would you see as your primary goal in that position?”
Flora had never considered this idea, as she did not imagine the Prince would choose her. She could only answer, “A wife’s primary goal lies in supporting her husband and family, I suppose.”
“Then you don’t have any pet projects or causes you’d like to promote if you were placed in a position to do so?” he pressed.
“I think that would be impertinent,” she said with a frown. “To come into the position with an agenda? Naturally the Prince’s consort must consult with him before she uses her position for any sort of influence.”
“What are your passions in life, then?” asked the man on the other side of Lord Winthrop. “Do you have hobbies? Things that spark your interest?”
She saw no reason not to be completely honest. “I like plants and gardening. There’s something very satisfying about nurturing something from a seedling and watching it grow.”
They were all writing now. Flora didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one. The only person who had not asked a question yet was Mrs. Moreland, but she seemed to have written twice as much as any of the men. In the ensuing silence she lifted her lovely eyes from the page in front of her, observed Flora quietly for a moment, and then opened her mouth to query,
“Miss Dalton, what is your favorite dessert?”
After every other question that had been posed thus far, Flora had not expected this one at all. “I—” she said haltingly, and she cast her mind about for an answer. She hit upon a far-flung memory. “Our cook used to make a wonderful peach cobbler. I remember eating it on summer evenings with my mother, when I was small. I suppose that would be my favorite.”
Elizabeth Moreland smiled softly. Then, she wrote something more on her paper. Flora could not imagine what one’s favorite dessert had to do with becoming consort to the Eternal Prince, but she wasn’t about to question the Prime Minister’s wife on her evaluation methods.
The interview continued in much the same manner. The lords took turns asking accusatory or intrusive questions, as though they were grilling a hardened criminal whom they sought to catch by artifice. Mrs. Moreland, on the other hand, posed only frivolous questions—whether Flora preferred cats to dogs (she actually preferred birds to both, but didn’t like to see them caged), what was her favorite season and why (late spring, because the garden was in full bloom), and whether she liked the latest fashions that used feathers (she thought they were pretty, but worried about them becoming too commonplace). Were it not for Mary, Flora would have never even noticed the profusion of feathers that graced the bonnets and hair ornaments of every society girl she encountered, including herself, in the case of her newly acquired wardrobe accessories.
Trifling as Mrs. Moreland’s questions seemed, though, Flora could not shake the suspicion that there was something more to them. It was, perhaps, in the small smile that played around Mrs. Moreland’s lips every time one of the lords rolled his eyes at the frivolity. Flora very strongly suspected that, far from being the substance-less fluff-brain that the men of the room assumed her to be, Mrs. Moreland was more cunning than all of them combined. But then, Flora thought that trait probably ran in the Moreland family.
She answered questions for a quarter of an hour before they finally thanked her for her time and dismissed her. As she left, she tried not to show her eagerness to get away. The guards on either side of the door spared her a sidelong glance. There was no one waiting to enter after her, so she assumed that either the next girl on the list (one Sylvia Davis) had dropped out of the tournament, or else the interviewing committee was going to have a break. Neither option concerned her in the least. She turned her footsteps up the wide corridor to return to her own office and the little boxed lunch that Cook always sent with her.
So relieved was she to be done with the nerve-wracking interview that she allowed her mind to wander and nearly walked headlong into someone just rounding the corner in front of her. She managed an abrupt stop to avoid the collision.
“Oh! I’m so terribly sorr—” She looked up to discover Charles Moreland in his crisp military uniform. Flora had not seen him since pushing him into a snow drift on the night of Mrs. Olivette’s gala. She felt a blush creep up the back of her neck to her face and was suddenly determined not to appear in the least flustered. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Moreland,” she said with far greater calm than she felt, and she moved to step around him.
Charlie sidestepped into her path. When he spoke, it was in a decidedly less cordial tone. “You know, if you needed help with your studies, you only had to ask.”
The unsubtle accusation in his voice triggered Flora’s inner demons. She raised impish eyes and replied, “I did. I asked your father. He very kindly obliged, too.” She tried again to step around him, only to have him move into her path a second time. She fought down the instinctive urge to growl. “Is there something you need from me?” she inquired sweetly.
“Edmund’s barely into his own training. How’s he supposed to progress if he’s having to give you remedial lessons instead of tending to his own studies?”
That question struck a chord of guilt within her, but she was hardly going to let Charlie know that. “He’s doing the same thing with me that he was doing under your watch. The only difference is that you’re not there to snap at him when he asks questions. Besides, wouldn’t it be more appropriate for you to take up this issue with your father? It’s not as though I requested Edmund as a tutor—I only requested anyone but you.”
A muscle along his jaw tightened. He would have answered, but his gaze suddenly shifted over her shoulder. Eyes wide, he snapped his mouth shut. Flora turned to discover, to her great dismay, Mrs. Moreland walking directly toward them.
If Mrs. Moreland had heard any of their unpleasant conversation, it did not show on her face. She seemed lost in her own world. When she realized her eldest son was before her, though, her whole countenance brightened. She hurried forward. “Charles, dear!” she cried, and she happily kissed him on the cheek. “Are you coming to stand guard this afternoon?”
“Yes, Mother,” said Charlie. He glanced nervously at Flora.
Mrs. Moreland’s eyes followed his. “Why, Miss Dalton! I did not realize that you were acquainted with my son!”
Flora wanted nothing more than to slink away into the shadows, but she quickly rallied her spirits. “Only marginally. I was just on my way back upstairs, Mrs. Moreland. If you’ll both excuse me—”
“What do you mean, back upstairs?” Mrs. Moreland asked.
The look on Charlie’s face plainly warned Flora not to divulge anything unnecessary.
“The… um,” Flora started as her brain scrambled for an appropriate response. “That is, they’ve given me a little nook up there where I can study while my dad’s performing his duties.”
“It’s the Prince’s orders,” Charlie quickly added, thereby drawing his mother’s attention back to himself. “You remember there was an incident in town several days ago, where some forest creatures attacked a house—it was Miss Dalton’s house, and the Prince thought it best that she not be there alone during the daytime, so she’s been coming up to the palace with her father.”
Flora scowled at the vast amount of information he had disclosed. She would never have admitted a word of it, but she supposed that Charlie knew what sort of explanation his mother would accept. She wiped the frown from her face as Mrs. Moreland turned wide eyes upon her.
“Do you mean to say that you spend all day here at the palace?” She blew an astonished puff of air. “It’s a good thing none of the examiners knew that before your interview. We’ve just
finished Miss Dalton’s interview for consort,” she added to Charlie, as though he couldn’t guess why she was here in this corridor. “It’s been tedious business for the most part—oh, not you, Miss Dalton. Your answers were quite entertaining. We’re pausing an hour for lunch now, and then we have to start back up again. I wonder if I should hold it against the Prince for putting me on a committee with such a bunch of blowhards.”
She paused to check whether any of those blowhards were within hearing distance. Luckily for her, they were not.
“I’ve probably astonished you, Miss Dalton,” she continued with a pretty smile. “A true lady is not supposed to use such language, of course, but you will excuse me as I’ve already endured a day and a half of their pomposity. You only had to endure fifteen minutes. You did quite a lovely job of it, I might add.”
Flora had absolutely no idea how to respond to any of this. Charlie seemed just as aghast, but he made a better recovery. “I think we’ve waylaid Miss Dalton for long enough, Mother,” he said. “She was on her way back upstairs—”
“Oh, no!” cried Mrs. Moreland. “How could I possibly send her back upstairs alone? Miss Dalton, you simply must join me for lunch. I usually have my husband, but his lunch schedule is off by an hour from these interviews—Lord Winthrop never eats an early lunch, you know, so of course we had to accommodate his usual schedule, and the end result is that Nicholas will’ve already come and gone for lunch and I’m to be all by myself. There’s no point in us both being alone. I suppose I should ask if you’ve eaten anything yet.”
Charlie was making every subtle signal he could think of to tell Flora to refuse. It annoyed her; she didn’t need his guidance in this of all matters. “Thank you, Mrs. Moreland, but Cook always packs me a little box lunch, and it’s waiting—”
Tournament of Ruses Page 19
