A Pearl Among Princes

by Coleen Paratore

  “The same blue dress as last year, just sewing in some shiny bits about the hem.”

  We lie back on the soft grass to rest before afternoon chores. The day is warm and it is quiet. Sleep sweeps over me.

  I am standing by Captain Jessie’s boat, staring out at the waves, foaming as if a storm approaches. Could I sail this myself? I wonder. Can I really leave Miramore? But then there’s the shoals and fiery whirlpools. I sit on the sand to think. I lie back and close my eyes. As soon as I do, I see the faces.

  “Here I come,” I say, and now I am floating cloud high in the sky, beneath the flapping wings of a giant gray gander, suspended from her beak by two shiny ribbons in a purple-rimmed clamshell with dainty ridges, arms wrapped about my knees tucked to my chest, rocking ever so gently, peaceful and safe. Will you heed the call, Gracepearl, Mother asks, her voice so close I can nearly touch her. This birthday, the gift will surprise you, my dear . . .

  “Mother, where are you, what do you mean?” And then she is gone and the goose is singing, “Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop, when the wind blows the cradle will rock, when the bough breaks the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and . . .”

  “Ahh!” I sit up, shaking, a cold sweat on my forehead.

  “What is it, Gracie?” Lu asks, waking too, touching my arm.

  “A nightmare?” Nuff says.

  “No,” I say, “just too many confusing dreams.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Taming Onions

  I had a little pony,

  His name was Dapple Gray;

  I lent him to a lady

  To ride a mile away.

  She whipped him, she slashed him,

  She rode him through the mire;

  I would not lend my pony now

  For all the lady’s hire.

  When I report to the kitchen for my afternoon duties, Nora Baker is ready and waiting, no “hello” or “how was your lunch,” just a hurried nod toward the pile of onions on the counter. “There ya go, girl.”

  Oh, no. Not the onions. They make my eyes cry so. Father always spared me this least favorite of the kitchen tasks. I rinse off my hands, roll up my sleeves, sigh a loud sigh, and begin. Picking up a fat yellow onion, I peel away the shiny skin, crinkling my lashes, bracing myself for the sting. Sure enough, just as I slice it in half and then quarters, my eyes burn and my nose leaks like a spigot.

  Tattlebug sneezes loudly at the sink, sending soap bubbles everywhere.

  “Shove a hunk of bread in your mouth,” Nora shouts over to me from the table where she’s gutting a fresh catch of shark, blood smattering everywhere.

  “What,” I ask, sniffling.

  The old baker turned head chef rolls her eyes as if I’m dimwitted. “The bread will soak up the stinging airs,” she says. “Never let an onion take ya down, girl. Gotta learn to tame it.”

  I smile thinking how I’ll tell Lu and Nuff about this bit of wisdom. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, cut off a piece crust from the loaf, and stick it in my mouth. Feeling foolish, but hopeful, bread hanging from my lips, I reach for another onion. I peel it and halve it and quarter it, and like magic, this time my eyes don’t water.

  “Fank you, Miff Mora,” I say, my words muffled in the soggy bread. What a smart idea. I make a mental note to ask about the science behind this phenomenon when school with Lady Jule resumes in September. But then I won’t be here in September. Summer days are slipping away. If Sir Peter is the prince for me, I must step up my pursuits . . .

  “Aye,” Nora says, the faintest hint of a smile the only indication that she heard the compliment in my thanks.

  Later I steal a closer look at the old woman’s nearly always stern face. Nora Baker has plump cheeks and hazel eyes, her thick gray, white-streaked hair hangs down her back in a braid, nearly long enough to sit on, with just a few raven strands as evidence of the color it once was. As she deftly scales and bones another fat gray fish, scraping the waste into a pile, later to be tossed in the mulch bin, Nora seems to forget the rest of us working beside her in the kitchen. Her face takes on a soft, tranquil expression.

  She looks happy, I think. That’s it. She is doing work she loves. To me, kitchen work is drudgery. To Nora, kitchen work is joy. How different we all are. Each with different gifts. What is mine, I wonder. All I know for certain is that I’m to find out somewhere other than Miramore.

  Later, after dinner, Father suggests a game of chess.

  “How are you doing, daughter?” he says, lining his pawns in a row.

  “Fine,” I say, lining up mine, wanting to say much more, but not wanting to burden him in his sickness and uncertain of how he will react to my strange and haunting calling. I long to tell him of this anxiousness, how I love Mackree but instead have been flirting with princes, and then there are the faces that . . .

  My hand freezes on the last pawn as I fight back tears.

  “Gracepearl,” Father says, covering my hand with his grand one. “Talk to me. How can I help?”

  There is a knock at the door. Mr. Sparks, the candle maker, one of Father’s best chums. “Welcome,” I say. “Do come in. Father will be much cheered to see you.”

  I head outside. The garden’s in full bloom. I gather some blue lilybells, purple and pink asters, and three sprigs of Queen Anne’s lace and bring them inside to find a ribbon and a basket. Mackree’s mother’s birthday is this week, I know. Mrs. Byre has always been kind as a mother to me and I have missed her lately. I call in to tell Father where I’m going.

  “Be home before dark,” he says.

  Hopefully Mackree will be out in the stables, far enough away from his cottage to even know I am visiting. When I come up over the hill to the Byres’ horse farm, I hear galloping and then there’s a whirl of dust as Sir Humpty races past me on Mackree’s prized steed. The egg-shaped PIT strikes the muscled stallion’s glistening brown coat with his long black rod.

  “Charge! Charge! We shall be victorious!” he shouts, digging his heels in roughly. He is bouncing up and down like he’s taming a wild colt rather than riding a prize-winning Thoroughbred. Fall off and crack, I yell in my mind.

  Humpty whips the horse again. “Charge!”

  Fool. Cruel fool. I have half a mind to shout to him. There is no need to beat Ransom. Mackree already said that Sir Richard will ride Ransom in the tournament, and the finest horse on Miramore needs no rod to win a race. Mackree would be furious if he knew. But I won’t intercede and shame Mackree again. Sometimes it’s so hard to know what to do.

  Frustrated, I turn toward Mackree’s cottage. When I reach the porch, my breath catches in my throat. Nuff is sitting with Mrs. Byre.

  Mrs. Byre pours Nuff a cup of tea. Nuff says something and they laugh, so familiar, like old friends or family. Since when does Nuff visit my Mackree’s mother? Maybe this is why she was so oddly quiet that night by the fire. Maybe it’s not Sir Peter that Nuff is fond of. Maybe it is Mackree! My heart is pounding. My stomach churns. What is wrong with you, Gracepearl? You should be happy. If Nuff likes Mackree, then you are free to pursue Sir Peter without concern. Mackree said he would seek a girl who was happy living on Miramore. Nuff is that for certain. And see how kind and beautiful she is. Why wouldn’t Mackree be charmed by her?

  “Gracepearl!” a man’s voice calls, and I turn.

  Mr. Sparks, the candle maker, huffing and red-faced, is hurrying toward me.

  My heart stops and starts again. Father.

  I drop the basket. “The hospital?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Not to worry. I’m sure he will be fine. Just a bit of indigestion is all.”

  CHAPTER 15

  A Miramore Moonlight Sonata

  Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea,

  Silver buckles on his knee;

  He’ll come back and marry me,

  Pretty Bobby Shaftoe.

  Reaching the solemn building faster than I would on Ransom’s back, I yank open the heavy door, scrunch my nose at the medicine smell, and race t
o the room where Father was last time.

  His face is pale as flour, his breathing faint as a kitten’s. I cup my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob, and fall into the chair next to his bed.

  After a long while, Father opens his eyes. His smile is the sun winning over a storm cloud.

  “Gracepearl, my love,” he says quietly. He inches his large frame upward with labored effort and a grimacing wince.

  I lean in. He wraps me in his arms.

  “Now, now,” says the gnome-faced Nurse Hartling, sailing swiftly into the room. “Let’s try to keep our patient calm, young lady. Cook is stable now. Let’s keep it that way.” She looks at Father and—wait, is that a small smile on that usually stern face?

  No surprise though, really. Wherever Cook Coal is, it is merrier.

  “What happened, Father?” I say.

  “I’m fine. Doctor said it was indigestion.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” I sigh, relieved.

  Nurse Hartling clears her throat, wanting me to go. I want to tell Nurse Hartling to go, but remembering the power of honey, I say, “Yes, Nurse, of course, you know best.”

  The nurse’s thin lips pucker into another smile. “It’s late, but I will give you a few minutes.” She touches her cap and adjusts the collar on her dress. “I’m off to my other patients now. I have some sixteen to attend to, you know.”

  “Oh, sixteen? That is very many patients indeed,” I say.

  Father winks ever slightly, just for me to see.

  At the door, Nurse Hartling turns back, unable to resist her nature. “Just a short visit,” she says to me. “Cook needs his rest.”

  When she leaves, Father smiles broadly and mimics my earlier comment about Nurse Hartling’s patients. His eyes are bright and happy. “You’ve got your mother’s sweet way with words you do. And her beauty. And her heart.”

  Father and I visit for a bit. I am sure he is getting better and he will come home with me soon. Leaving the hospital, I take a deep breath of sweet island air. Captain Jessie, where has that man been, passes me on the path. We exchange greetings. What a curious man. I wonder what he’s up to? I turn as if I’m going into the chapel and when it’s safe I take a peek back up the road just as Captain Jessie is entering the hospital.

  Hmm. Interesting. Maybe he likes Nurse Hartling. The thought of that makes me laugh. Feeling happier now that I know Father is okay, I head home with a hopeful heart.

  There is something on my front step. As I approach I see it is the birthday basket for Mrs. Byre that I dropped when I hurried off to see Father. The flowers are wilted now. Who brought this? Nuff? Mackree? My head is swirling with so many confusing emotions. Enough of this. I cannot care about these Miramore matters. Clearly Mackree has moved on and I must too. It is a prince I need. A prince and passage to the world that calls me.

  Sir Peter. I will find Sir Peter this instant. I’ll not sit idle on a tuffet waiting for him to come calling again. This time, I will take charge of my destiny.

  Sir Peter seems stunned but delighted to see me outside his lodge.

  “Lady Grace,” he says, bowing his head slightly, a smile springing to his lips. “To what do I owe this most welcome surprise?”

  “Will you walk with me?” The words rush out like a gale of wind.

  The smile leaves his face for a second and when it returns, there is a sweet joy in his eyes to match. “Gladly,” he says, offering me his arm.

  I hear a rustle in the bushes. Tattlebug, no doubt.

  “Gracepearl,” he says. “May I call you that?”

  He looks so dashing in the moonlight. “Yes, of course.” I nod my head.

  “And you must call me Peter.”

  “Peter,” I say, “of course.”

  We walk toward the beach. A breeze wafts by us, setting two sets of my sea-chimes on nearby cottage doorways tinkling.

  “How lovely,” Peter says, “like music.” He stops and reaches out to touch one of the chimes. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  “I made it,” I say.

  He looks into my eyes and smiles. “And so your list of talents grows. I’d much prefer this music to the lutes and pipes I must endure at home.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Could I impose on you to make one for me?” Sir Peter asks.

  “You can purchase one tomorrow at Trading Day,” I say. “I have a booth.”

  “And the lady is skilled at commerce as well?” He laughs. “Lady Grace, you are delightful. So absolutely refreshing.”

  I think I hear the telltale sneeze of Tattlebug. “Let’s keep walking,” I say.

  Soon we reach the beach.

  “I came to visit you earlier,” Sir Peter says. “Your father was being carried off on a stretcher and I couldn’t discover where you were. The nurse at the hospital, a tight one she is, wouldn’t let me enter without family permission, prince or no prince she said . . .”

  I laugh. “That would be Nurse Hartling. She could use a charm class herself.”

  Sir Peter laughs, relieved that I am laughing. He looks up toward the heavens.

  “Such a beautiful night,” he says. “Too perfect to waste on sleep. Miramore is a paradise. I could get used to living here.” He stands there looking out at the water.

  I think of Nuff, how they would make a winsome pair, then I think of the faraway faces, still calling out in my dreams. I glance up at the squid ink sky, vanilla cookie moon, sugar-speckle stars glistening. Just now, one star leaps toward another. The wind blows. It is so romantic here.

  “Yes,” I say. “The night is grand. Too lovely to waste on dreams.”

  The pirate prince smiles a smile that could melt a chocolate bar. He bows, then extends his bended arm forward, his eyes never leaving mine. “A dance, my lady,” he says.

  I curtsy. “My lord.”

  We dance as if we are royalty. A picture wafts into my mind. I am processing into a grand ballroom, not the modest one here on Miramore used once a year for the Summersleave Ball, but a golden grand ballroom in a regal palace. There is a man, his back is to me, dressed in royal garb, standing alone at the bottom of the staircase. I try to see his face, but he turns from me. Who is he?

  Shaking off this vision, I look at the very real Sir Peter. How dashing he is in his wild sea-tossed hair and silver loop. Pretty Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea, silver buckles on his knee . . . A silly child’s nursery rhyme.

  I am no longer a child. Tonight I feel very grown-up.

  “I understand your birthday approaches,” Peter says. “August tenth, yes?”

  “Very good, Peter. Professor Daterly would be pleased.”

  He laughs, and I do too.

  “I thought you were older,” Sir Peter says. “And I mean that as a compliment. You seem wiser than sixteen, so much more mature than those flitty pink girls.”

  “The Muffets?” I say.

  “The Muffets?” He laughs. “That’s perfect. The Muffets have surely mastered how to chatter and flatter a man, but I search for a wife who will be my equal. I desire a mate, not a muffet.”

  His words waltz through my mind as we dance. I imagine boarding Sir Peter’s ship in September, the wet sea breeze on my face . . .

  “Achoo.” The telltale sneeze of Tattlebug lets me know we are not alone.

  But I will not let her occupy my mind. Just for this moment, I will not worry about a thing. I breathe in the citrus scent of the larabond trees, hear the wind whistling like piper flutes through the leaves, and now the strong drumbeat of the surf, wave cymbals clashing against the rocks . . . Ahhh, shhhhm . . . ahhh, shhhm, a Miramore moonlight sonata . . . just for this prince and me.

  CHAPTER 16

  Mermen

  Rub-a-dub-dub,

  Three men in a tub,

  And who do you think they be?

  The butcher, the baker,

  The candlestick maker;

  And all of them went to sea!

  The next morning as I return from my ea
rly walk on the beach, three treasures—a quill feather, a fishing hook, a silver spoon with lacy holes burned through from the salt water—in my pocket, I pluck a callaberry flower, stick it behind my ear, and turn up the bend to my cottage.

  Sir Richard is walking toward me. He nods his chin upward. Clearly he is coming to call. He has seen me—I can hardly pretend to be away.

  His eyes are a startling deep-sea blue, his handsome face freshly shaven. There’s a scent of lime about him. Wearing swimming shorts, he is shirtless, a towel draped carelessly over his broad shoulders.

  “Good morning, Lady Gracepearl,” he says with a bow, a wide smile flashing to display perfectly straight white teeth. His eyes scan my face and hair, the red callaberry flower, settling on my eyes. His look is so intense, I look away, then back again.

  “Just when I am certain I have seen the most beautiful sight on this isle of paradise, I am even more enraptured,” Sir Richard says.

  My face blushes in the glow of his praise, in spite of my good friend’s heart.

  “It seems the fine gentleman from Ashland has no need of the course in flattery this summer.”

  Sir Richard laughs. “And I see the fine flowers of Miramore have voices and wits to match.”

  I smile. “How are you finding your stay here, Sir Richard?” I say, trying to steer the conversation in a more formal direction. With Nuff and Mackree, and Lu’s claim to Sir Richard, I can focus on Sir Peter and hurt no one.

  “Better by the minute,” he says, “but, please, call me Richard.”

  “And the classes,” I say, “how go they?”

  “Professor Quill nearly puts me to sleep droning on about love letters, sonnets and poems, etcetera, etcetera.”

  I laugh.

  “Is it true ladies are so charmed by the turn of a candied phrase?”

  “I suppose it depends on the lady,” I say, “and the phrase. And the candy.”

  “Well done.” Sir Richard laughs. “And what of you, Gracepearl? What sort of sweets do you favor?”