“Chocolates and nut crunches, honey-drops, mint wellups, and sea taffies . . .”
“Ah, yes.” Sir Richard smiles. “A pretty girl leaves sea taffies on my pillow when she cleans my room.”
“That’s Lu!” I say. Oh, yes, good. “My friend Lu. Isn’t she beautiful? And so kind. And oh what a cook. The sea taffies are just one of her specialties. She makes them herself. And such a good heart. She would do anything to help another. That’s my friend Lu. Beatiful inside and out—”
“I came to ask if you would care to join me for swim,” Sir Richard says, interrupting me.
“No thank you, Sir . . . Richard. I am not dressed for the occasion.”
The sound of male voices and laughter swells up over the cliff from the beach below. Richard turns toward the noise and with a look of reluctance says, “Well then. Maybe we shall meet again tonight. I hear there is a bonfire and dancing in the woods.”
“Yes. I’ll be coming with my friends Lu and Nuff. I’d like you to meet them, especially Lu.”
“Yes, Lady Lu,” he says. “She of the sweet taffies?”
“That’s right.” I start to walk away and then turn back. “Do you want to have a big family someday, Richard? With lots of children?”
He laughs. “The more the merrier. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” I smile, thinking of Lu. “I am not sure what I want.”
Sir Richard raises his eyebrow, and I add quickly, “Be careful of the sun, my lord. You wouldn’t want to burn at the height of summer.”
Laughing and shaking his head, he’s off down the pathway to join the other PITs.
I race to Lu’s cottage, where she’s just waking up. “Hurry,” I say, filling her in.
We run to Nuff’s cottage and Lu calls her to join us. “Nuff, posthaste. The PITs are swimming!”
The sounds of shouting and laughter rise up loud as we approach the shore.
“I wonder, does Sir Peter keep his hair tied or let it hang loose like a merman,” I say. Nuff casts me an odd look, then shrugs her shoulders.
“Do you think Sir Richard has a hairy chest?” Lu gushes, blushing.
“What I wonder,” Nuff says, “is does Humpty Dumpty boy swim or just float like a hardboiled egg?”
We giggle and duck under the branches of the scrubby beach trees, inching our way out to a secluded ledge where we will be able to perch and see the princes swimming without them seeing us.
Mackree and I used to come here. Last Hallow’s Eve he tried to kiss me. I was startled. I giggled, turning my cheek away. Then, at the Christmas Eve dance in the woods, he pulled me close, trying to kiss me again, but I twirled away. “Silly boy.” I would not push Mackree away now. No, Gracepearl, it is over. I force my mind to silence my heart.
Lu is the first one to reach the ledge. “Ahhh!” she gasps.
Nuff is the next one out. “Oooh!” she says.
“What? What?” I say, finally edging out.
I look down, the scene below me coming into focus.
The PITs are swimming, frolicking like seals. One ducks another’s head underwater to what seems will be the point of drowning, but then the dead-head bobs up and spits and coughs, and arms lunge back to return the favor.
“What’s wrong?” I say. “They look like they’re having fun.”
“Wait,” Lu says, “watch.”
The royal boys, usually so given to pomp and circumstance and rules and protocol are, here in the sea, playful as nursery boys, carefree as mermen.
There is Sir Richard. He dives down and flips up. Wait. Was that his bum? Lu and Nuff giggle. I saw myself just moments ago he was wearing swimming shorts. A gull caws and my eyes follow the bird to where it alights on a large boulder draped with towels. Towels and shirts and shorts. Oh dear!
“The PIT from Maple is swimming in,” Lu says. “Marcus, his name is.”
When Sir Marcus reaches shore he stands and we nearly fall off the ledge.
This prince is wearing nothing but his birthday suit and he’s wearing it quite well.
“Grace,” Lu says, “did you by chance bring your spyglass?” We all laugh.
“I’ve got an idea,” Nuff says. “A naughty idea. Come on!”
We follow her from the ledge, back through the brush and around down to the boulder where the PITs’ clothes are strewn. “Blame the laundress in me,” Nuff says, laughing mischievously, “but clothes tossed in a heap must be on their way to washing, right?” She starts scooping up the PITs’ things.
“Come on,” Nuff says. “What are you waiting for?
“I don’t know,” Lu says, ever the more cautionary one. I think of her sea taffy presents to Richard, surprised at her secret boldness.
“Let’s do it,” I say. “A little joke never hurt anyone.”
It was easy to spot Sir Humpty’s apparel, being of a certain extra-rotund girth, and while we safely deposited the other PITs’ shorts and towels, folded nicely in a spot up the beach where they could easily find them, as Nuff had suggested, we had taken our time in finding a good revenge for what he did to Leem on the beach and me in the garden, and now a truly perfect method had presented itself. We added a bit, well, to be honest, more than a bit, of poison-ivy itching powder to his preposterous pink and yellow flowered undershorts.
“He’ll be scratching his shell all week,” Nuff said. “Just wait. You’ll see.”
“I think I’d rather not,” I say, laughing.
“You two are wicked.” Lu shakes her head. “Wonderfully wicked.”
CHAPTER 17
Trading Day
The Queen of Hearts,
She made some tarts
All on a summer’s day.
The Knave of Hearts,
He stole those tarts
And took them clean away.
The sky is gray and heavy with clouds on Trading Day. Hopefully the rain will hold back until after I’ve sold my sea-chimes. There are twenty at least, this month, with colorful shells of various shapes and sizes, from the delicate yellow periwinkles to the thick purple whirled sunsprays. I look for shells with holes bored through them and then I string and knot and arrange them. The right combination makes a sweet melody when they meet in midair.
Checking to be sure the knots are secure, I slide my chimes on a long pole and set off for the square, proud of my work. I am early, but Nora Baker and Tattlebug are there setting out pastries and pies and tarts. I wave and continue down to my stall. I pull back the tarp, brush off my counter, and hang the chimes along my display rope. They look like mermaid necklaces. I smile to myself. With wind they’ll sing the music of the sea.
Soon Nuff will be here with her mother selling soaps and lotions, healing potions and perfumes. Sally Tailor will assist her mother selling dresses. Janey Derry and her mother sell eggs and butter. I am the only Miramore girl to have her own booth. It took two years to convince Mooney, the growly man who runs Trading Day, but when he saw what a draw my chimes were as I sold them displayed on a blanket on the hill near the edge of the stalls, I think he calculated the commissions he was losing and finally saw the wisdom of a new way.
“When money talks, Mooney listens,” Father said with a chuckle. If only I could succeed at convincing dear Lu to approach him about sharing her sweets with a booth of her own. But she fears disappointing her family with such public dreams of other trades.
Soon the square is filled with Miramores coming to purchase and trade. Spirits are high, as this is a day we all look forward to. A mop of Muffets stroll by stuffing their mouths with cream cups and savory tarts. They whisper and roll their eyes at me. They don’t think a girl should be running a business. I turn away to adjust one of my chimes. “When’s she going to act like a lady,” I hear one of them say.
My face reddens, from anger, not shame. I’m about to say something, but then I see Sir Richard approaching.
“Lady Gracepearl,” he says, bowing. The Muffets stop and stare.
“Sir Richard,” I say
with a curtsy.
The Muffets’ antennae have perked up. They are coming toward us.
“Is this your handiwork, Lady Grace?” Sir Richard says, reaching out to touch first one chime and then another. “I’ve never seen such whimsical ornaments, and what lovely sounds they make.”
Before I can answer, one of the Muffets, Chappy Lure, a fisherman’s daughter, says, “Oh look, girls, come see Grace Coal’s new shell thingies. Aren’t they sweet?” And then all the pink-shawled spiders are swarming in front of my stall, making believe they are looking at my sea-chimes when they’re really trying to snatch up the prince.
“Well, look what the wind blew in,” I say under my breath.
Sir Richard hears me. He bursts out laughing. “Oh lady, you slay me, you do.”
And then Sir Peter is there too. Good.
“Here you are, Lady Gracepearl,” he says, a wide grin on his face. “The busiest spot on the square, no surprise. I’ve come to buy your wind chimes, the whole store please.”
“Now wait just a moment, Peter,” the soldier prince from Ashland says. “You’ll have to wait in line. I was here first.”
The Muffets are shocked, heads turning back and forth amongst themselves, to the princes and me. They know I’ve never been very interested in the summer royals before—they must not have believed Tattlebug’s rumor about my quest for a prince.
Nuff rushes up to whisper in my ear. “Listen,” she says, and then can’t go on she’s laughing so hard. “Sir Humpty . . .”
I giggle and she giggles. “Oh, Gracie,” she says, cupping her hands about her mouth by my ear. “The egg prince just came to Mother’s stall looking for bum balm.”
“Bee balm?” I say, thinking of the lip-soothing salve Nuff’s mother fashions from the wax of bees.
“Shh!” Nuff doubles over laughing again and then regains herself, whispering in my ear again. “Bum balm, Gracie. Buttocks balm. It seems the prince from Oakland acquired a most unusual island rash.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “Not the dreaded Miramore ‘gotchagood’ weed? I hope you warned good Sir Humbert to exercise more caution as he gets ‘the lay of the land,’ so to speak.”
“Hmm, hmm.” Sir Peter clears his throat. I note that he and Nuff lock eyes for a moment. She looks away, and so do I.
“Later, Grace,” Nuff says, a solemn tone now in her voice. “Mother needs me.” I notice Mackree strolling down the hill toward the market, and I wonder if Nuff saw him too. Maybe he comes to buy some of her mother’s special lotions for his horses. I shake my head and turn back to the princes as Nuff returns to her booth.
“How much for the store?” Sir Richard says.
I smile.
“Whatever the cost, I’ll double that,” Sir Peter says.
The Muffets make twittering sounds.
I look at my chimes.
I look at the princes.
I see Mackree approach Nuff’s stand.
“What do you want them for?” I ask.
The two five-star PITs regard me carefully.
“To brighten the dreary halls of Elmland,” Sir Peter says.
“To share with the sick of Ashland, so the music might help them heal,” Sir Richard counters.
You win this one, Sir Richard, I think. What a noble response. If Lu wasn’t so enamored of you . . . But no, I will not allow myself to continue the thought.
“Music to my ears, fine sirs. You shall each have an equal share.”
CHAPTER 18
Heart to Heart with Father
Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly,
Lavender’s green;
When I am king, dilly dilly,
You shall be my queen.
Hauling the pails of coal to the kitchen I think of the dance in the woods tonight and then of the Summersleave Ball next month. “Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green. When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be my queen.” This year I will wear my new purple satin dress to the ball. Mother’s letter directed Father to give it to me on my fourteenth birthday. It was way too big for me then. It fits me perfectly now. I’ll wear my oyster shell necklace from last birthday and weave a callaberry and Queen’s Lace crown.
Alone on the garden path, I begin to skip. Imaging the music I will hear tonight in the circle in the woods, my feet step to the rhythm, I whirl and twirl. I am happiest when I am dancing, when all confusion slips away.
I gather the lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, and beets, then hurry to the kitchen, where Nora greets me with today’s next assignment. Peeling potatoes. Mounds of potatoes. I set my knife to the mottled brown skin of the first ugly spud and begin. My thoughts soon return to dancing, and then to my behavior yesterday, in equal measure.
I think of how the Muffets seem to live all year for the Summersleave Ball. Hoping a prince will fall in love with them, maybe even profess his love at the ball. So many silly school stories and plays have this same exact plot. A handsome prince comes for summer study in the charming arts, meets a beautiful Miramore girl, a Muffet, of course, offers her a ring at the Summersleave Ball before a jubilant crowd and then the couple sails away to some far-off castle, where they will marry and live happily ever after.
And now such a fairy tale could turn true. “You could be the first,” Nuff had said. I might sail away from Miramore in mere months. Then I think of the glance she and Sir Peter exchanged at Trading Day. Could it have meant that there is nothing between her and Mackree? My heart speeds up.
My heart is pounding. It’s as if a fog is lifting and I can suddenly see clearly. I look down at the ugly potato peels and laugh. Tattlebug peers over at me. How is it that now, in this seemingly unimportant moment, in this kitchen, peeling potatoes, how do I know what my heart has decided? My eyes fill with tears, happy tears. My calling to leave Miramore is strong, and yet my tie to Mackree is unbreakable. To leave him would leave half of my heart on this island.
Purl Will U Maree Me? Mackree had written in the sand that day.
“Yes!” I say aloud.
Tattlebug is staring at me. “Who ya talking to?”
“No one,” I say. “Mind your beeswax.”
Mackree’s face appears in my mind. Mackree, who makes me light up like a thousand stars born all at once of a night while the fiddle music weaves magic and the cow jumps over the moon. And yet my mind tells me I must go. My mind says my heart must be silent. I ache now knowing why it pains Mackree to see me. Maybe I can spare myself some sorrow too by avoiding him as much as I can until I leave Miramore. But how can I leave on a boat with a boy who may well be the heart’s desire of one of my best friends? Oh, this is heart-boggling brain-wrenching confusing . . .
When I am finally done in the kitchen, I hurry to the hospital to visit Father.
Good news, he’s been released.
“Thank the heavens,” I say, throwing my arms around a startled Nurse Hartling and rushing off home.
I enter the cottage quiet as a mouse so as not to wake Father should he be sleeping. There he is, sitting up in bed, writing. He pauses, reads over what he’s written, dips the quill feather in the ink pot and continues. For some reason I know not to disturb him. I wait outside his room. When I look back in, he is stuffing the paper, looks like several pages, into a thick red volume. I recognize it is the book of history Mother taught me from. How odd. Father closes the book, a sweet-sad smile on his face. He sets the book down and picks up the pine pillow I gave him as a child. He brings the pillow to his nose and sniffs, breathing it in and out, tears now rolling down his cheeks.
“Father?”
“Gracepearl.” He sniffs and wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand. He smiles. “Come sit beside me. Tell me all your news.”
“No, Father, tell me of you. Are you all right?”
“Yes, Gracepearl. I am fine. It will make me happy to hear of you.”
Tell Father about the dreams, I hear Mother speak inside me.
“Mother talks to me always,” I blurt out.
&n
bsp; “Yes,” Father says, smiling, “to me as well.” He pats the spot beside him and I sit.
“Just this morning Miriam reminded me that your sixteenth birthday fast approaches, as if I would forget.”
Suddenly I am wary of this next birthday gift. I am curious, but afraid. The spyglass, the mirror, the necklace, the purple dress . . . the presents have always been perfectly lovely, but Mother has said this year’s gift will be different from the rest. Suddenly I do not want my birthday to come. “Maybe we should skip the present this year,” I say.
A sadness washes over Father’s dear face and just as quickly he covers it with a smile. He reaches out to touch my hair. “Miriam and I talk often of our beautiful girl all grown up. We could not be more proud, Gracepearl. You are all that we dreamed of in a child, way beyond our wildest imaginings.”
Tears well up in my eyes. “Father, I love you so.” I hug him.
“You have brought me so much joy,” he says.
“You sound like it’s ending,” I say. “We will always be together.”
“In spirit, yes child,” he says. “Forever heart to heart.”
“You’re getting better, Father,” I say, voice rising. “Look, you’re home now and the color has returned to your cheeks. You have years to . . .”
“Gracepearl,” he says, his face moving with what seems like so many conflicting emotions. “This birthday . . . the gifts . . . they will be different from the others.”
“Gifts, Father? I don’t understand.”
“I wish I could have prepared you more.”
“Prepared me for what, Father?”
“Ahhhh. . . .” He lets out a long sweet sigh. “I promised your mother to wait until your birthday. We made a pact and I have faithfully followed her wishes.”
“I grow to dread this birthday,” I say. I feel now that I must tell Father of my confusion. “Mother speaks of a destiny, a calling. Of a choice I will make. I think of leaving Miramore, but how? The only way is to marry a prince, and yet my one true love is Mackree. And I am haunted by these strange and recurring dreams . . .”
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