Lu and Nuff come each day for tea and gossip.
“The PITs were comical indeed dancing with brooms and mops in Madame Bella’s class,” Nuff reports. “Sir Richard swept around the room as if he was star-smitten mesmerized with his raggedy mop. ‘Oh my lady, what lovely white locks you have. And what is that sweet perfume? Soap you say? How delightful.’”
Lu and I burst out laughing.
“Then the Muffets pushed open the door,” Nuff says, “nearly toppling on the floor, all fancy in dresses and their matching pink shawls.”
“How do they get out of work so easy?” I ask.
“This year they’ll do anything,” Lu explains. “Their mothers cover for them at the mill, so desperate are they for their daughters to marry into money. And I heard Janey Derry boasting that she had the whole summer free from milking too.”
“Speaking of Janey,” Nuff continues with her story. “She asked Madame Bella if the Muffets could assist with class. ‘Surely the princes would prefer beauties to brooms,’ she pleaded, batting her doe eyelashes, twirling her frilly parasol. But smart Madame Bella scooted them away. ‘You’ll have your chance at the ball,’ she said.”
The only person who does not come to visit me is Mackree. Surely Tattlebug told him about my royal suitors.
Waking early, hours before Father, who is such a sleepybear, grumpy if awoken too soon, I head to the beach for my morning walk. Like the forest, the sea has much to teach us, Mother said. “Never miss a chance to walk beside it, daughter, and let its wisdom soothe your soul.”
“Hello, Pumpkin,” I say to the little orange cat with the striped stumpy tail who saunters out of the brush to greet me. Cats run free all over the island. I’ve given names and food to many.
Pumpkin purrs and stares at me expectantly.
“Here you go,” I say, filling the dish I bring with oats. Pumpkin gobbles it up quick.
Hey diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
The little dog laughed
To see such craft
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
The rhyme flits in and out again. The cat’s green speckled eyes meet mine and I can read the thank you therein. I picture the little girl’s face I saw in my mind’s eye when I snuck aboard Captain Jessie’s boat. She’s hungry. That’s it.
I pack up the bowl and set off up the beach pondering the meaning of this. I walk briskly, breathing in the good fresh air of a brand-new day. I walk for good health and exercise. I walk with an eye for colorful shells, which I will fashion with string into wind chimes to sell on Trading Day. People favor my sea-chimes very much. I usually sell out by noon. When a good wind blows, you can hear my sea-chimes all over Miramore.
As I walk, I look for signs. Mother said the angels bring us each three signs a day—harbingers of things to come, clues about paths to take, reminders of how precious we are and how very much we are loved.
My gaze is drawn to a small gray rock, standing out from the thousands of pebbles and shells tossed upon the sand. I pick the stone up and study it, appreciating its smoothness and softly curved edges. It resembles the outline of the Madonna and child in the village chapel, the lady’s head tilted downward, her arms wrapped protectively around her baby.
I put the first sign safely in my pocket and keep on walking.
The sky is the blue of a robin’s egg. The cool waves tease my toes. The sun has cast off the filmy residue of its birth and is now a ball of flame in the heavens.
Thank you, God, for letting Father get better. Please help his heart grow stronger. A traveling band of little sandpipers scampers fast along the beach before me, leaving itty-bitty three-pronged prints in the sand.
Something catches my eye. A second sign. I bend to pick it up.
A small but sturdy branch of pine. The wind must have carried it from the forest, as there are no pine trees such as these by the water’s edge. There are two cones attached to the branch. They are connected, married, I think, smiling. I rub the long green needles and touch my fingers to my nose, breathing in the scent that holds such meaning for me.
I stick the second sign in my pocket and continue.
Picking up my pace, pumping my arms, I feel my heart beating strong within. Up ahead a gull nose-dives in and away from a mound on the sand, another gull dives in, then another.
When I reach the mound, I see that it is a mighty silver fish. There is a jagged hole in its side and two gulls are pecking off choice bloody bits for breakfast. As I get closer, the birds squawk angrily off, bothered by my interruption of their morning meal.
I stare at the dead fish’s glassy eye. I feel a chill. “No,” I say aloud, glad for one simple choice. “That will not be the third sign.”
I turn and run up onto the boulders. I hop from rock to rock, out to a place where the waves surround me. I sit on the flat-topped outermost rock and wrap my arms about my knees. I close my eyes, breathe in and out, in and out, feeling the rhythm of the waves, hearing the ocean’s voice like a giant snoring, ahh . . . shhh . . . ahh . . . shhh.
The thought of a giant makes me smile.
Fe fi fo fum!
I smell the blood of an Englishman . . .
Walking home now, back up the beach, I am drawn to pick up another object. It is a perfectly flat skipping stone. Nothing special about it, except it reminds me of Mackree. How I used to collect bags of these for him. I bring the stone to my lips and kiss it gently.
Into my pocket the true third sign goes. What was that I made Lu and me pledge? Dream a dream and believe it. Design our own destiny. I shake my head. No, it can’t be.
I hurry home to make tea for Father. He’ll enjoy a cup with the honey sweetdrops from Lady Jule.
CHAPTER 12
Coal
A man of words and not of deeds
Is like a garden full of weeds.
On the back step by the dining hall kitchen, I reach for the two buckets and my shovel, then follow the path down to the coal yard, where several others are already gathered for their household’s daily allotment.
Greeting Mackree’s sister, Laney, and some other early birds, I plunge my shovel into a bin of the dark black chunks and scoop until I fill both buckets to the brim. I swat a fly from my forehead and set off to haul the buckets back up to the kitchen, my arms straining from the weight. A nugget of coal falls to the ground and I stop, set the buckets down, and bend to retrieve it. A nugget of coal is a nugget of gold when you’re fueling stoves for cooking.
Nora Baker is looming large in the doorway when I reach the kitchen steps. She wipes her hands on her thick apron, stained with grease from frying bacon, no doubt. I breathe in the pleasant smells of savory meat and eggs and pastries. Compared to my dreadful oatmeal, a breakfast such as that would be lovely indeed.
“There ya are,” Nora says, huffing impatiently, pulling the pails with ease from my hands as if they are baskets of feathers. “How’s Cook?”
“Better, Miss Nora, thank you.” I turn to leave.
“Hold it there, girl. I’ll be needing two more today.”
I sigh. “Yes, ma’am.” I think, Oh please not another trip to the coal yard, but I keep my thoughts to myself.
Nora returns with the empty buckets. I dutifully take them and set off again.
“Hurry back, Gracepearl, and don’t be dallyin’,” the old cook shouts. “I’ll have the garden list waitin’ fer ya. And it’ll be a long one.”
“I’ll get right to it, Miss Nora.” I’ll miss many when I leave Miramore, but I won’t miss that battleaxe.
I walk back to the coal yard and wait my turn in the now much longer line. The sun is bright and the buzz of locusts heralds the hot day ahead. There’s a volley of laughter and I turn to see a group of PITs heading up the path to Professor Millington’s classroom cottage. Some of the princes appear to be practicing a confident swagger as they walk. Sir Humpty stumbles, looks about embarrassed, and then
speeds up his canter as if he had been just moving from a walk to a run. Tattlebug has observed the stumble-run and thinks it’s funny. She laughs and he sends her a look that could fry an egg.
The princes will be learning Charming Manners today. Sir Richard and Sir Peter walk behind the others, their backs are to me, good thing. I wouldn’t want them to see me wearing this ugly smock. For a moment I’m surprised by such feelings. I’ve never been ashamed of my clothes before my fate hung on my presentation. I might take a clue from the silly Muffets.
Sir Richard turns and gazes over in my direction, and I move quickly to avoid our eyes meeting. When he brought me the roses, I was cool to him. Lu has made plain her interest in Sir Richard, and it would be a breach of our friendship to pursue the solider prince. Sir Peter is a different matter. I have a sense that Nuff likes him. I have made a point of inquiring about Sir Peter, things Nuff may have heard or noticed about the ponytailed prince. I’ve studied her face for clues as she responded, but if she likes him, she is keeping it a secret. Nuff is my friend and I love her as much as Lu, but until she professes her feelings, the pirate prince must be fair game.
After I present the buckets of coal to Nora, I head to the pump, reaching to rub my aching shoulders, foolishly leaving a black smear on my yellow blouse.
The pump is already well primed, and the fresh cold water fills my washing tub in a few seconds. Reaching for the gritty cake of soap and brush, I scrub the black coal dust from my hands and nails. Coal. Gracepearl Coal. Servants named for the nature of their work. Nora Baker from a line of bakers. Nuff Lundry from a long line of laundresses. Coal for one who digs coal for the kitchens. Gracepearl Coal. It’s a nice enough name, the Gracepearl part, that is. If I marry a prince it won’t matter anyway. I’ll have to take his name. That gives me an unpleasant feeling. Why does a girl have to give up her name? Is a girl’s name less important than a boy’s? I think not.
Nora is at the door waiting for me with the list of vegetables she needs for today’s meals. “Hurry, child. Yer slow as a turtle. I haven’t got all day.”
“Sorry, Miss Nora. I’ll be quick.” I take the paper and look it over.
“I want the small red potatoes, eighty of them, no bigger than a silver dollar,” the old cook says, circling her thumb and finger to illustrate. “And be sure the green beans are the length of a farmer’s finger,” Nora instructs with a most serious expression, as if this is a difficult mathematical lesson to grasp.
I stifle a laugh unsuccessfully.
“What?” Nora says sharply.
“It’s just I’ve never heard that rule of measurement before.” I giggle. “A farmer’s finger. But it is an apt description, Miss Nora, and one I shall duly remember.”
I scan down the list, silently noting the misspelled words. Nora Baker never had the benefit of classroom education, but she’s a scholar in the kitchen, for sure.
“This long,” Nora says, holding her finger up to demonstrate the bean length again, “but not too bumpy and fat.” She smooths her own fat arthritic knuckles to illustrate. “Or the beans’ll be dry inside.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I hook the spade on the loop of my belt, pick up my baskets, and set off to the garden, wishing I was heading to the beach instead. Sir Richard’s handsome face flits into my mind. Had he seen me this morning? A cook is one thing, but how would he feel about me as a coal digger? Stop, Gracepearl. Why are you even thinking about Sir Richard? This is so confusing. I sigh angrily and kick a stone.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
CHAPTER 13
Confusing Dreams
Hark! Hark! The dogs do bark,
The beggars are coming to town;
Some in rags, some in tags,
And some in velvet gowns.
With a few minutes to spare before I meet Lu and Nuff for lunch, I feel drawn to Mackree’s stables. As I come up over the hill, I see him, and take cover behind a tree. He is brushing his prize horse, Ransom.
Mackree’s long, dark, rich brown hair blends perfectly with Ransom’s mane. Mackree brushes the horse’s flanks with long measured strokes, talking to him all the while.
Suddenly Sir Humpty appears, his protruding egg belly clear evidence that he is enjoying our Miramore cuisine. “I’ll ride that one in the tournament, boy,” he says to Mackree, tapping Ransom’s head with a stick.
Ransom rears back. I see Mackree’s body stiffen.
“He’s taken,” Mackree says, not looking up. Mackree coughs and spits.
“Look at me when I talk to you,” the egg PIT says.
The barn door swings open and Sir Richard joins them. “Is he ready, Mackree?” Sir Richard asks, nodding toward Ransom.
“Aye, sir,” Mackree says, stepping away from his horse.
Sir Richard greets Ransom, then mounts him with ease.
The egg prince is fried. “I claimed that horse,” he says to Mackree. “You know that, boy. I’ll have you reported.”
“I’m no boy,” Mackree says in a measured tone. “And good luck reportin’. Ransom is my horse and I’m the only one decidin’ who’s fit enough to ride him.” Mackree spits again.
This time a bit of shiny spittle lands on the egg boy’s boot.
“I’ll have you whipped,” Sir Humbert says, coming toward Mackree with his riding stick raised.
“That’s enough!” I shout, rushing forward. “Leave Mackree be, you brute.”
Sir Humbert looks at me and laughs. “Well, if it isn’t Lady Grace of the Gardens.”
“Uggh,” I sneer at him. “If it isn’t the stumbling Humbert.”
His smile freezes. He nods at Mackree. “Figures you’d let a girl fight your battles. A real man knows how to . . .” The dining hall bells gong loudly. Humpty’s fondess for food rules the day. He leaves, then turns back. “We’re not through, boy,” he says to Mackree. “I would challenge you on Tournament Day, but then, of course, you won’t be riding. You’ll be scooping dung from my horse’s rump.”
Mackree moves toward Humbert, but the egg prince hurries off.
I reach to touch Mackree’s arm. “What a pompous . . .”
Mackree pulls away like I’ve stung him. His face is quivering as if he might cry. My heart breaks watching him feel so shamed.
“Go, Pearl, now. Go.”
And as much as I want to console him, respecting his wishes, I do.
Lu and Nuff are waiting for me in the shade of the huckabee tree. Lu offers me a smashed peanut and strawberry sandwich.
“Sir Richard the soldier is such a dearie,” Lu says. “Handsome and heartfelt too. How wonderful it would be to wed such a man. When I went to retrieve his chamber pot this morning he said, ‘No lady, I’ll do that task myself.’ Isn’t that sweet?”
“And smelly,” Nuff says, and we giggle.
“The royals are learning their manners,” Nuff says, separating a segment of juicy orange and popping it into her mouth. “I was walking by the window when Professor Millington was saying how ‘ladies are charmed by men with fine manners, especially as displayed at the dining table.’
“She said”—and Nuff hardens her nose, sucks in her cheeks, shoulders back, chin up, affecting the proper posture of the instructor of Manners and Protocol—“‘Gentlemen . . . in the presence of a lady, there will be no burping, no slurping, no letting off steam—’”
“Steam!?” I nearly choke on my sandwich.
Lu giggles. “What’s she mean, steam?”
“Actually I think she said ‘bottom steam,’” Nuff answers, “otherwise known as ‘gassy vapors.’”
“Oh, Nuff,” I say, “enough. You are too too funny.”
“Bottom steam?!” Lu repeats. “Oh, no, she didn’t say that.”
“Did too,” Nuff says, waving her hand in front of her nose, and we three double over laughing.
I notice Nuff instinctively puts her hand over her mouth to cover the broken front tooth she thinks makes her unattractive.
That, of course, is silly. Nuff is beautiful, especially when she’s laughing. But you can tell a person something a million times and that doesn’t make it true for them unless they feel it inside. Unlike Lu and me, Nuff is more private about her feelings. I recall how silent she became when talk turned to Sir Peter that night at my cottage. I wonder if she likes him. No. I would have picked up something by now. Tattlebug’s been gushing waterfalls of PIT gossip—who was seen walking with whom, who was seen talking with whom, and while she’s often mentioned “Moo-Lu’s moon eyes for Sir Richard,” she hasn’t said a word about Nuff, nor have I heard her mention either of my prospects.
“Well, that’s all fine and dandy that the princes are learning some manners,” Lu says. “I hope they take good notes.” She tucks a lock of her lovely red curls behind her ear. “But I’m in charge of cleaning those royal boys’ bedrooms and I say the lot of ’em, ’cept a few, oughtta be sent back to nursery for some training in aimin’.”
“Say what?” Nuff says.
“The half of ’em can’t aim their pee in the pot.”
Nuff and I burst out laughing.
“That’s not very nice, Lu,” I say.
“Nothing nice about wiping up pee neither,” Lu says, swishing away the last of the creamy peanut and strawberry sandwich crumbs from her lap. “You’re lucky you don’t have brothers, Gracie.”
Lu has four of them. Nuff has two.
“A brother would have been nice,” I say. “A sister too.” I look from Nuff to Lu. “But, then again, I’ve got two sisters right here.”
“That’s right,” Nuff says.
“For always,” Lu agrees.
“Have you heard any gossip about Captain Jessie?” I ask.
“Not a word,” Nuff says.
“Me neither,” Lu says. “But enough of that old goat, let’s talk about the ball! My aunt Lisha gave me a pair of red shoes that match my gown perfectly. What are you wearing, Nuff?”
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