“Here ya go, girl,” Nora barks when she sees me, thrusting a too-big gray apron in my hands and motioning to a silver serving dish with two wells full of salad dressing. “Blueberry or champagne vinaigrette,” she says. “Take a ladle for each.”
“Ooh, fancy,” I say as a compliment, but Nora ignores it, never one for praise.
I enter the dining room and look toward the two long tables where the PITs are seated. Sir Humpty’s eyes catch mine and I swear he is laughing at me. I scowl and move toward my post, circulating around the professors’ table, offering dressings for the fresh green but tomato-less salad. Nora cleverly thought to substitute strawberries. What a good idea. She’s surprising me. I bet they taste lovely.
Headmistress Jule is seated at the head table, orchestrating conversation with her signature ease and grace. Slight as a fairy, she sits propped on pillows to compensate for her height, her white hair swept up and clasped with jeweled pins, a shimmery silver dress fanning out around her. I note the tiny velvet pouch by her wine goblet. She keeps her honey sweetdrops in there. Lady Jule is known for her sugary tooth.
“Blueberry or champagne vinaigrette, Lady Jule?”
“Champagne, thank you, Gracepearl.” She touches my arm as I ladle out the dressing. “How pray tell is dear Cook?”
Lady Jule favors Father as much as her sweets. “Better, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Here,” she says, proffering me the velvet pouch. “Bring these to Cook with my best wishes for a swift and full recovery.”
“I will, Lady Jule, thank you.” I slip the pouch into my apron pocket and continue down the line.
I hear giggling and note four small dirty boots sticking out from beneath the draperies, holes in two of the soles. Leem and Brine have snuck in again this year, I see, hoping to sample the succulent fare. Nora Baker will bat their bums home with a broom if she discovers they are there. Leem peeks out. I smile and wink, tapping my finger to my lips, reminding him to be quiet.
When I approach Professor Pillage he is crinkling his nose at the salad, stabbing out the strawberries as if they are beetles. He waves away my offer of dressing, without so much as a “no thank you.” Professor Millington, instructor of Manners, Protocol, and Etiquette, tsk, tsks at him. “Not a very good example for the princes,” she says.
Lady Jule taps her crystal water goblet with a spoon and rises. The room soon comes to attention. “Royal visitors, distinguished faculty, loyal staff. As headmistress of the Miramore Academy of the Charming Arts, it is my great pleasure to welcome . . .”
Nora and I stand along the wall at attention, listening to the speech with the other kitchen servants. Tattlebug is hovering by us. She has long had a crush on Mackree and likes to report to him on any snippets of our conversation she can overhear.
Nora is wearing the tall white hat of the lead chef, an honor I’m certain Father would have insisted upon, and yet it makes me sad to see. I tell Nora about Captain Jessie arriving as he did on a thirteenth ship saying he was here on the “king’s business.”
“Ahh. . . .” Nora sucks in air. “Jessie Tru?” She turns away. “Already?” she whispers to herself, but I hear.
I begin to question her, but then the gong chimes and we must be silent.
Headmistress Jule announces each PIT by name and each young man stands to be recognized. The professors clap. We servants bow or curtsy. Pillage applauds a particularly loud and long time for Sir Richard, who seems uncomfortable being singled out from the others.
Humility, I think to myself. A lovely quality, Sir Richard.
Almost as if Sir Richard heard my thoughts, his eyes glance about the room. When they meet mine, he smiles.
The smile is not lost on Nora, who nudges me with her elbow, nor on the nosey Tattlebug. “Oooh,” she says, “looks like Mackree has competition.”
When Sir Humpty is introduced, I can feel him staring at me, but I refuse to look his way. I think of toying with his dessert plate. Maybe I’ll tuck a bonus into his berry shortcake, a bee or a . . . No, that wouldn’t do. If discovered, Nora might be blamed.
Lady Jule introduces the faculty.
“Professor Millington . . . Manners, Protocol, and Etiquette . . .
“Professor Quill . . . Letters . . .”
I can almost see Professor Quill pulling the ever-present feather quill pen from behind his ear, scrolling it through the air as he explains his area of expertise to the PITs on the opening day of class, “words, words, beautiful words . . . love letters, poetry, sonnets and rhymes, etcetera, etcetera . . .”
“Madame Bella . . . Ballroom dancing.”
“Bella, bella,” Professor Quill says, and Madame Bella smiles approvingly.
“Madame Bella will see that our royal charges are well-heeled in the waltz before the Summersleave Ball,” Lady Jule continues.
“Professor Gossimer . . . Language and Conversation . . .
“Professor Daterly . . . Special Occasions . . .
“Professor Blunderfuss . . . the Sports of Kings. Professor Blunderfuss will be overseeing the ever-popular tournament, which we look forward to in the coming weeks.”
I think of Mackree, who works in the stables. Tonight Mackree is mucking out horse dung, no doubt, pitch-forking heaps of hay, filling the troughs with water. He is a fine rider, the best on Miramore, fast and controlled. Mackree could race any prince and win. I have watched him these many summers as he watched the royal visitors mount the horses he raised and trained, his face a potent double potion of envy and shame.
Professor Millington discreetly passes Lady Jule a note.
Lady Jule reads it, raises her chin, and sniffs the air. It must be some matter of royal protocol, which Professor Millington has just ruled upon.
Lady Jule shrugs her lovely shoulders ever so slightly, almost indiscernibly, as if to say All right then, if I absolutely must. “And finally, it is my pleasure to introduce Professor Edwin Pillage, Distinguished Professor Emeritus of the Military Arts, Ashland Academy, visiting with us this summer on Miramore.”
Professor Gossimer raises her hand to be recognized. “And what will Professor Pillage be teaching?” She sounds distressed, as if she is unhappy about this news.
“We are still discussing that,” Lady Jule says sharply.
“Oooh, a battle’s brewing,” Tattlebug says with a sneeze. That girl is forever sneezing and wiping her nose. Thank goodness her job is washing dishes and not preparing the food. She comes so close to my face I can smell her nasty oniony breath.
“Lady Jule doesn’t want Pillage here. She’s no fan of his field of study,” Tattlebug says, boastful with her gossip. “I heard her say ‘Miramore’s mission is charms, not arms.’”
It’s no secret Professor Pillage thinks the summer classes here are foolish. He wants Lady Jule to let him offer “real man” courses, hunting and cock-fighting and such. And this year, he insists a race be added to Tournament Day. In the past, the tournament has been mostly for show, the newly charming princes trotting about for our applause. This year, thanks to Pillage, they will compete for the Order’s accolades and a large gleaming trophy.
After the berry shortcakes and chocolate truffles are served and the princes begin retiring to the den, I load a silver tray with dishes quickly, hoping to make it to the hospital before Father retires for the night. I stack the plates as high as I dare and turn just as Leem is sneaking out from his under-the-table picnic with Brine. I trip. The fine china dishes crash to the floor, with a sound surely heard around the island.
Sir Richard rises from his nearby seat. He smiles as he notes Leem dashing back under the tablecloth.
“What’s this, what’s this,” Nora Baker shouts, bustling out from the kitchen, her face damp with sweat. Tattlebug is right behind her.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “clumsy me.” Little Leem has had enough shame. I won’t let him bear Nora’s wrath too.
“What’s the matter with you, girl?” Nora says, her face reddening.
“Gracepearl broke the best dishes,” Tattlebug tattles.
Nora is so mad she could spit. She looks to Sir Richard. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
“No, madame chef, it is I who must apologize,” Sir Richard says. “I startled the lady.” He bends to retrieve a dish. I do the same. Our eyes meet and he smiles with an ever so slight tilt of his head, showing me he knows about the two food pirates in hiding. How sweet of him to protect Leem and me. This prince needs no class in charm.
“Gracepearl will pick up that mess, Prince,” Nora says, huffing disapprovingly.
“Gracepearl,” Sir Richard says softly, “what a lovely name.” He stands and offers me his hand. He helps me up. His hand is strong. My heart skips a bit.
Sir Richard turns toward Nora. “I was actually coming to the kitchen to seek you out, madame chef. I wanted to compliment you on a truly scrumptious banquet.” He taps his stomach. Nora smiles despite herself.
“Would you see fit to fix a snack for me for later? ” Sir Richard asks her.
“Of course,” Nora says, face gleaming. “Come along, Gracepearl,” she says to me. “You go along, sir, and enjoy the games with the other princes. I’ll have Grace bring you a basket right away.”
I finish picking up the broken china. In the kitchen, Nora slices chicken and slathers slices of fresh herb bread with gingered mayonnaise, humming a happy tune. She takes some pickles from the barrel. Fills a paper bag with sweet-potato chips. Wraps two raspberry tarts. Puts it all in a wicker basket with a checkered cloth on top.
“Take off that apron, now,” she says to me. “There now, go.” She hands me the basket and whisks me away. “A man who loves food is a man worth loving.”
I don’t dare look toward Tattlebug, standing elbow deep in soap bubbles at the sink, for fear her jealous gaze will melt me. I’m sure she is scheming, planning out the when, where, and how she’ll tattle to Mackree about Sir Richard. As if Mackree would care. He himself said to find me a prince.
CHAPTER 8
Five-Star Flirting
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers;
A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,
Where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?
When I reach the royals’ den with the basket, I see the two most handsome PITs of the twelve, Sir Richard the soldier and Sir Peter the pirate, seated at a table staring intently at a chess board. Father taught me the game when I was seven and it fast became one of my favorite sports. I’m a bit of a chess champ. Father hasn’t beaten me in years.
I walk close enough to see the carved wood figures, quiet so as not to disturb the play. Sir Richard finishes calculating his options. He lifts a knight and moves it up and over. Sir Peter smiles and quickly sweeps his rook across the board. Oh dear, he’s left his queen open to attack.
“Lady Grace,” Sir Richard says, looking up. He stands and Sir Peter follows. They move toward me.
Sir Peter nods at the basket. “A present for me?” he says, smiling, crossing his arms over his chest, his silver earring glinting in the candlelight.
Nuff was right. This prince is a looker. And of good humor too.
“No, sir,” I say, “sorry. Sir Richard requested this from the kitchen.”
Sir Peter chuckles and looks at Sir Richard, impressed with his fellow PIT.
“Thank you, Lady Grace,” Sir Richard says, claiming the basket, my eyes, and my attention all at once. He smiles at me, his blue eyes glistening. I feel my face flushing.
“Lady Grace, is it?” Sir Peter says, coming closer.
“Gracepearl,” I say.
“A winsome name for a winsome lady,” Sir Peter says, bowing with a flourish. “Allow me to introduce myself, Sir Peter of Elmland, at your humble service.”
Sir Richard laughs. “Well done, Elmland, charming indeed.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Sir Peter,” I say with a curtsy, trying to hide a smile. About this, the Muffets seem to know something—flirting is fun.
Then I gather my wits back about me. It’s late and getting dark. I must go if I want to see Father. “Good evening to you, sirs.”
“Wait,” Sir Peter says, “stay.”
“Yes,” Richard says, “our match can wait.”
“No, thank you. I really must be off.”
Sir Richard follows me into the hallway. “May I call on you?” he says.
Sir Peter comes up beside Sir Richard, slyly dropping the napkin from the food basket on the rug. “You dropped something, Sir Richard,” he says.
When Sir Richard looks, Sir Peter leans toward me. “May I call on you?” he says.
Sir Richard snaps the napkin at Sir Peter’s head. “Here’s a pretty scarf for your ponytail, Peter,” he teases. “I know some royal girls who’d give their last glass slipper for such ravishing hair as yours.”
Sir Peter roars in laughter. “Yes, Sir Richard, and I know some. . . .”
Two five-star PITs in a verbal joust over me? My head’s in a swirl. “I must go,” I say. “Good evening.”
“Well, my lady?” Sir Richard calls down the hall.
“Well, my lady? ” Sir Peter echoes.
I turn and smile, first at one and then the other. “Yes and yes,” I say.
They laugh good-naturedly.
“Oh, and, Sir Peter . . .”
“Yes?” he says.
Recalling the positions on the chess board, I know the only way he can spare his queen is to sacrifice his bishop. “I’d pay tithes to the bishop if I were you.”
“What?” Sir Peter says, confused.
“The chess game,” says Sir Richard, roaring with glee, getting it right away. “So the beautiful Lady Grace is clever too.”
Amazed at my new brazenness with boys, I hurry off to the hospital to see Father.
It is too late. He is asleep. Another nurse, Sister Anne, short and rotund with a pleasant reassuring smile, says that when Doctor Jeffers made his evening rounds “he was quite pleased with Cook’s progress.”
“Oh, that is good news, indeed, Sister,” I say, tears filling my eyes. I clasp my palms together in gratitude. “When he wakes please tell him that his daughter came to visit with her fondest love and that I shall return bright and early tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 9
The Glory of Girlfriends
Polly, put the kettle on,
Polly, put the kettle on,
Polly, put the kettle on,
We’ll all have tea.
Sukey, take it off again,
Sukey, take it off again,
Sukey, take it off again,
They’ve all gone away.
I nearly skip away from the hospital I’m so happy to hear Father is on the mend, but the closer to home I get the heavier my heart grows, and my skip slows to a somber trot, dreading the dark and lonely cottage without Father.
Turning the bend, I’m surprised to see a lamp in our front window and another light flickering inside. Lu’s face appears in the window. What a nice surprise.
Dear Lu has brought egg salad sandwiches with pickles chopped in the way we both love best, and sweet fried onion chips, succulent strawberries picked fresh from the patch today, a cloth sack filled with warm chocolate cookies studded with walnuts, and her famous sea taffy. And last, but not least, gossip about the princes.
Ahh, the glory of girlfriends.
I take a bite and then another. “It is you who should be the cook one day, Lu. Such talent is wasted cleaning.”
“Hmm . . . maybe someday,” Lu says.
I try the sweet fried onion chips. “Oh my heavens, these are delicious! “
I was in such a hurry to visit Father, I passed up Nora’s spread for the servants. I’m sure she didn’t treat the kitchen crew with the pomp and dignity Father always offers on this special evening. She probably fed them in the kitchen instead of insisting they sit in the fine chairs at the royal tables, but n
onetheless, I’m sure the food was tasty. No one can say Nora Baker can’t cook.
Suddenly ravenous, I devour another sandwich, popping one salty crunchy chip after another into my mouth, washing it all down with fresh sweet lemonade from the jug. Lu laughs, happy to see me eat.
“You’re worm thin,” she says. “Get some meat on those bones. You’ll never fill out a ball gown unless you plump up some.”
“You’re such a mother, Lu.”
“I can’t wait to be, someday, Grace. I want to have a house full of children and a big bright kitchen to . . .”
She stops. Her face clouds. “What, Lu? Tell me,” I say.
“My dreams are not meant to come true,” Lu says. She turns and begins clearing up from our picnic.
“That’s preposterous,” I say. “Come here, Lu, right now.” I fetch the jewel-rimmed mirror and hold it up to Lu’s face. “Look in there,” I say.
Lu giggles. “You’re silly.”
“Go ahead, look,” I say.
Lu does.
“Now,” I say, “repeat after me. I, Lu.”
“I, Lu.”
“I, Lu, am beautiful . . . bright and beautiful . . . inside and out.”
Lu giggles. She looks away from the mirror. I hold it back up to her face. “Go ahead, say it.”
“I, Lu, am beautiful, bright and beautiful, inside and out.”
“And the dream I dream will come true.”
Lu pauses, then begins to smile. “And the dream I dream will come true.”
I grin. “This, I believe.”
“Me too, Gracie. This, I believe.”
There’s a knock and then the cottage door swings opens. Nuff pokes her head in carrying a blanket and a pillow. “I thought you might like some company tonight.”
“Come in!” I shout. “Now we’re all here.”
Lu slides down the couch, making room for Nuff to join us.
I look at them and my heart fills with joy. What would have been a dark and lonely cottage quickly fills to bursting with laughter and good cheer. They are delighted to hear Father is doing better. Talk quickly turns to the PITs.
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