An hour later he heard the name Ellen again, brought up this time by one of the princesses. George was busy packing for his trip to Spania, so it fell to Christian to supervise the princesses’ daily riding expedition, along with the help of two grooms. He was thinking that his own sisters were not this much trouble as Princess Hermione, age eight, tumbled off her pony into a hedge for the third time.
“Don’t be such an Ellen,” Emmeline said to her little sister with great superiority. She was eleven, but had the mannerisms of a young lady twice her age.
“An Ellen?” Christian raised his eyebrows, puzzled.
Both princesses erupted in laughter.
“She was our maid,” Emmeline explained through her giggles. “And she was so clumsy! Quite, quite ridiculous!”
Christian frowned at them. “You shouldn’t laugh at someone just because she’s clumsy,” he told them. He was supposed to be making friends with the Bretoner royal family, but since Emmeline had announced that she would marry him when she turned twelve, he had done his best to seem old and boring and stern.
“But she really was awful,” Hermione said. “She broke the pillows.”
“How do you break a pillow?”
Emmeline rolled her eyes. “She didn’t really break the pillows, she ripped the cases; there were feathers everywhere. She burned everything she ironed, and she tripped while bringing me hot chocolate and it spilled all over my nightgown four times.”
“She combed my hair once,” Hermione added, “and when she was done there were more tangles in it. I don’t know how she did it, but she did.”
“It was clearly on purpose,” Emmeline said with authority. “Then she cried so that people would feel sorry for her. Fat old Millsy said to give her more time, but Mother said no.”
Christian wondered how the girl had gotten a place at the palace to begin with. “Don’t call Mrs. Mills fat, it’s rude,” he said finally, and led them across the grounds.
His eyes were bothering him. The palace grounds, both lawns and shrubbery, seemed dull and dry even though the Tuckington Palace gardens were renowned throughout Ionia. Yet at the same time he saw green sparkles in the corners of his vision. He rubbed at his eyes, and heard someone laughing.
“What is so amusing?” He turned to frown at Emmeline. She gave him a quizzical look. “Odd,” he muttered under his breath.
“What did you say?” Emmeline had her eyebrows raised, and her expression gave Christian hope that her infatuation with him was cooling.
“Nothing,” he said, and swiped at his eyes again. “Nothing.”
Maid
Ellen Parker sat on the narrow cot in her new room at Sead-own House and closed her eyes for just a moment. Soon the Seadowns’s housekeeper, Mrs. Hanks, would come in to tell her the house rules, to tell her that she should be grateful, to tell her that she was just a maid.
Ellen’s proud heart shrank a little more, and she wished that she had a few tears left to cry. She had sobbed all the way from the Laurences’s manor and didn’t think that there was a single drop of moisture left in her. She took out a thin handkerchief and rubbed at the salt stains on her cheeks.
“Hacks are so filthy, aren’t they?” Mrs. Hanks said as she came in. “The pitcher’s full, if you need to freshen up.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Ellen said woodenly. Mrs. Hanks looked very much like her sister, and despite Ellen’s fond feelings for Mrs. Mills, she had found little comfort with her.
“Now, Ellen,” Mrs. Hanks began, her voice firm.
“Here comes the lecture,” thought Ellen. “At least she remembered to use my new name.” The former Eleanora Parke-Whittington found it painful to be reminded of her past by being called Eleanora, and so she had altered her name to something more in keeping with her altered status. She had been named after her grandmother, and that leader of fashion had never had to empty her own chamber pot, let alone anyone else’s.
“I know that you were not born to this work, my dear, but then I don’t know of anyone who would have chosen it. I would rather be served than a servant myself!” Mrs. Hanks smiled but Ellen just looked away. The smile would fade soon enough, when it became apparent that Ellen was useless. “We’ll do the best that we can to help you, but you have been in service now for some years, and I expect you to be able to do some things without supervision.”
Ellen just nodded, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Mrs. Hanks’s smile thin out. “Yes, ma’am,” she said hastily.
“I will introduce you to His Lordship in an hour, though most of your duties will be with the young ladies of the household, Lady Marianne and Her Highness Princess Poppy of Westfalin.” Mrs. Hanks swelled a bit with importance when she said the princess’s name.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ellen said, her voice barely audible. She hadn’t realized that she would be waiting on girls her own age, girls who would have been her friends if things had gone differently.
It seemed that she did have tears left to cry after all.
“Here is a dress that should fit,” Mrs. Hanks laid a bundle on the bed. “Apron and cap as well. We can alter them later if there is any need. The black stockings and shoes you have on will be just fine. I’ll let you get freshened up,” Mrs. Hanks said, not noticing Ellen’s distress—and who cared if a maid was upset? The plump housekeeper went out, closing the door behind her.
Steeling herself, Ellen went to the washstand, trying to avoid her reflection in the dim little looking glass that hung above it. There was a bouquet of dried flowers hanging next to the mirror, belonging to the maid that Ellen would share the narrow room with. At least they would not have to share a bed: there were two cots, thank heavens. And the basin and pitcher, though plain, were not cracked or chipped. The servants quarters at the Laurences’ were furnished with things too damaged to be used in the more visible parts of the house.
She lifted the pitcher and poured water into the basin. As it ran into the white porcelain, the water turned green. Ellen nearly dropped the heavy pitcher, only just managing to put it back on the table in time. From the glowing green water, she heard a kindly voice speaking.
“Poor dear! All alone in the world, aren’t you?”
Ellen whirled around, but the door was still closed and there wasn’t another soul in the room. “Who said that?” Her voice came out thin and shaky.
“They call me the Corley,” the voice said. “But I am also your godmother, my dear. Pour more water into the pitcher, that I may see you.”
“What?”
“When you pour water, I can see you,” the voice said, still patient and soft. It was a plump voice, a gentle voice, the voice of a grandmother in a lace cap and woolen shawl. “Pour the water, dear Eleanora, and let us talk.”
Still shaking, Ellen picked up the pitcher again.
Dancer
Purl two, knit four, purl two, knit four,” Poppy muttered under her breath. She gave her yarn a tug to unspool more.
“Step two, three, now entrechat,” said the dancing master, and brought his long cane down with a crack on the wooden floor.
At the cue, Marianne leaped into the air, clicked her heels together, and then landed with a thump. She wavered for a moment, nearly fell, and regained her balance with an embarrassed burst of laughter.
“Stand straight,” the dancing master barked. Mirth fled from Marianne’s face and she threw her shoulders back. “Again,” the man said. “Step two, three, and entrechat!”
Marianne leaped and flapped her feet and did her best to land with grace and dignity. As Poppy sat in the corner, dividing her attention between her knitting and Marianne’s lesson, she reflected that she had gotten off easy. Since Poppy did not dance, there was no need to disgrace herself trying to learn the strange new Analousian steps that were all the rage. They were part ballet, part acrobatics, and even the normally graceful Marianne was having trouble. Poppy thought that she could master the entrechat and a few of the other steps with a minimum of effort—after a de
cade of experience, she could dance on the steeple of a church if she wanted to—but she was thrilled to not have to.
“Oof!” Marianne, temporarily released from her lesson, flounced into the chair beside Poppy. “I don’t think it’s going to look very attractive at the next ball, if the new dances make me all red and sweaty.”
“I’m sure that Dickon Thwaite will find you all the more lovely with a red face,” said Poppy mischievously.
“What was that?” Marianne looked at her, face even redder.
“Nothing.” Poppy turned back to her knitting.
“What is that?” Marianne leaned in closer.
“I was just joking,” Poppy began, then saw that Marianne was looking at the tube of blue wool dangling from her hands. “Oh, it’s a bed sock.”
“For whom? It’s enormous!”
Poppy held up the sock, which was almost as large and as long as a sweater sleeve. “It will shrink in the wash, and be just the right size for you,” she told Marianne. “Truly.”
“You’d best let Ellen wash it then, if you want it to shrink.” She rolled her eyes.
“She’s trying,” Poppy said.
“I don’t think she is,” Marianne argued. “She looked almost happy when she told me yesterday that my new shawl was ruined.”
Poppy sighed. “It’s true,” she said, rueful. She wanted to give the new maid the benefit of the doubt, but Mrs. Hanks had been correct: the girl seemed to be purposefully inept, and showed no interest whatsoever in learning how to perform her tasks correctly.
Clothing she took to mend or iron came back with larger tears and more creases. Every fire she laid smoked and sputtered, every tray she carried rattled until tea spilled or buns rolled off onto the floor. You could hear her coming by the clatter of dishes, and see where she was going by following the trail of broken china or crumpled stockings.
“I certainly hope she doesn’t lose her position here,” Poppy said, absently counting stitches. “I don’t know of anyone else who would hire her, and what other work could she find? If she tried the theater, she’d probably bring the whole set crashing down.”
Marianne snickered, which made Poppy feel a bit guilty. She hadn’t been joking, not really. Ellen was so hopeless at being a maid that Poppy had indeed turned her mind to other careers for the girl, and couldn’t think of a thing she was suited for.
Still snickering, Marianne got back up to practice her dancing again. She stood in the middle of the ballroom, looking stiff and awkward, and then leaped straight up. When she came down hard, she gave a little shriek. “My feet!”
Without thinking about it, Poppy tossed aside her knitting and went over to her. “You landed flat-footed,” she scolded. “And the way you’re standing is giving me a crick in the spine. Do it like this.”
Throwing back her head and shoulders, Poppy bent her knees just slightly, jumped up and clicked her heels, then landed lightly on the balls of her feet. She didn’t stagger, didn’t bruise anything, and her gown wafted around her in the exact way that it was supposed to.
“Très magnifique!” The Analousian dancing master had come back into the room with Lady Margaret. Both adults applauded Poppy roundly. “Très, très magnifique, mademoiselle!”
“Oh!” Poppy fiddled with her necklace. “I didn’t really think … I don’t really care for dancing.”
“But mademoiselle should care for dancing,” the man insisted. “Mademoiselle is very, very graceful. Put aside the knitted thing, mademoiselle, and dance!” He began to pound on the floor in time. “Dance, dance!”
“Here, I’ll be the gentleman,” Marianne said eagerly.
Before she could protest, Poppy found her hands seized and she blindly followed her friend through the intricate steps of a pavane. She did another entrechat, and nearly fell this time.
The pounding of the dancing master’s cane and Marianne’s hands grabbing at hers the moment she came down from the entrechat were making her think of the Midnight Balls of her childhood. She was wearing a blue dress, and when she caught glimpses of herself in the long mirrors on the wall of the ballroom, it reminded her of the midnight blue gown she had worn to the last Midnight Ball. She was half-expecting her brother-in-law Galen to burst into the room, so when the door opened and a tall young man came in, she stopped so abruptly that Marianne trod on her toes.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” said the Dane prince. “I understood we were to go riding this afternoon. But if the ladies would rather dance …” He offered his hand to Poppy, who was too flustered to take it.
“Oh, girls, I forgot completely!” Lady Margaret clapped her hands. “His Highness asked to take you both riding, since he so enjoyed meeting Marianne and has not had time to make Poppy’s acquaintance.” And Lady Margaret proudly introduced Poppy to Prince Christian.
Poppy smiled politely and gathered up her knitting. “Let’s go change into our riding clothes, Marianne. We won’t keep you waiting long, Prince Christian.”
She took Marianne’s arm and hurried upstairs. Once back in her own room, she used all the best soldiers’ curses she knew.
Now that they had seen her dancing and knew that she was not a hopeless stumblefoot, as so many had assumed, people would be after her to dance all the time! The Seadowns were kind, and she knew that they suspected it was some emotional pain that kept her from dancing, but Marianne was too sunny in nature to ever truly understand. And the prince? He would naturally assume that she was snubbing him if she did not dance with him at the next ball.
Her riding habit fastened in the front, which was a blessing since her language would have scorched the ears of any maid who came to help. She got herself into it and pulled on her boots in record time. Checking in the mirror she saw that her hair looked tidy enough. She didn’t have a lady’s maid, and so when she needed help dressing she would have to ring the bell and take the assistance of whichever upstairs maid answered the call. It was just as likely to be the hapless Ellen as Gabrielle, Lady Seadown’s formidable Analousian lady’s maid, and so Poppy had been dressing herself a lot lately.
As she walked down the stairs to meet Marianne and Prince Christian, Poppy searched her feelings to decide why it was that Ellen so fascinated her. She thought it was perhaps because she wanted to pity Ellen—it would be horrible to go from a life of privilege to being a servant—but the girl’s attitude made it impossible. And there was guilt, too. Guilt that she had wealth (though not as much as most princesses), guilt that her father and her sisters were still living. Yet she still could not feel completely charitable toward Ellen.
“You look a bit… what’s the word? Oh, ‘pensive,’ Princess Poppy,” said Prince Christian when she joined him. Marianne was still changing. “I hope that I did not offend you when I burst into the ballroom. The butler seemed to think that it would be all right.”
He spoke Bretoner with a light accent not unlike Poppy’s own, and had bright blue eyes and an engaging smile. Poppy found herself smiling back, her mood lifting.
“Oh no,” she said, waving a hand airily. “I was thinking of something else entirely.”
She studied him frankly, having no doubt that he was used to it. After all, she was. He really was handsome, she decided. Perhaps two years older than she, and his family had neither lost a son to her family’s curse nor threatened violence against them during that bad time. A knot of tension in her stomach that she hadn’t even known was there loosened.
“We are equals,” she said, “though I am not my father’s heir. Why don’t you just call me Poppy.” She had always thought that “Princess Poppy” sounded too much like a name for a small dog.
“And you must call me Christian,” he said, giving her an even warmer smile. Yes, he was terribly handsome.
“Oh, pooh!” Marianne said as she came down the stairs. “I’ve taken too long and now you’re dear friends and I shall be left out.”
“That will teach you to spend all day primping,” Poppy said, winking at Christian a
nd taking his arm. “Five more minutes, and we would have eloped.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Marianne said, with a pretend pout. “Shall we?” And she led the way out to the drive, where Christian took in Poppy’s mare with great amusement.
“Yes?” Poppy raised one eyebrow. She was not a good rider, but the Bretoners seemed to live on horseback when they were not dancing, so she was trying her best to keep up.
“Is that a horse or a large ottoman?”
“Oh hush, we can’t all ride creatures like that,” she retorted. He had just mounted a bay stallion with wild eyes and flared nostrils. “He looks like he might eat me.”
“Best not get too close then,” Christian said.
Poppy made a face at him.
The three of them rode down the street to Rother-Hythe Park, where all the fashionable folk rode. Poppy was pleased to see that she wasn’t the only young lady riding a horse suitable for children and old people. Although she did notice that most of the young ladies riding such horses looked singularly brainless, and made a resolution to become a better rider.
Sensing her distraction, Christian gave her a quizzical look. “Is something wrong with your fat, elderly steed?”
“Oh,” Poppy laughed. “I was thinking that it really is a shame I’m only riding this poor thing. If my brothers-in-law had been cavalry men, I’m sure I’d be jumping hedges by now.”
“Your brothers-in-law?”
“I’m dying to meet them myself,” Marianne said. “Galen and Heinrich sound like fun. Poppy can spit and swear and gamble like a soldier.” Then a blush stained her cheeks. “And you know that I mean that in a good way, Poppy,” she hastened to add.
“I know,” Poppy said, blushing herself.
“Really?” A grin tugged at Christian’s mouth. “So it’s true that you really do play cards during balls?”
“It can get very boring, watching other people dancing,” Poppy told him. She wished her fair skin didn’t show her blushes so easily.