“You’re a very fine dancer,” Christian said in puzzlement. “I don’t see why you have to watch.”
Poppy winced. She knew she shouldn’t have brought up dancing again. “I don’t see dancing as entertainment,” she said in a low voice. “I see it as something I used to have to do, whether I liked it or not.” She stared past Christian to the trees, briefly imagining a forest of silver, stirred by a wind that no other creature felt. At least her blush had been chased away.
“Oh,” Christian said, still puzzled. “I see.”
Marianne defused the tension by chiming in with the story of Poppy’s first ball in Breton. “She walked right into the card room on the arm of Dickon Thwaite! Have you met Dickon, Your Highness? I mean, Christian? He’s very amusing, you are sure to like him,” she burbled.
“He’s also very handsome, and sweet on Marianne,” Poppy said out of the corner of her mouth.
“Everyone was staring,” Marianne went on, ignoring Poppy. “So Papa came to her rescue and actually played some hands with them. And he hasn’t touched a card in years!”
Poppy still found that puzzling. “But he’s very good, and he was sitting in the card room when we went in. Are you sure he doesn’t play anymore?”
“Oh, he used to play all the time,” Marianne said. “And he never lost. But it bothered Mama a great deal, so he stopped.” She shrugged. “Most of Papa’s friends play, so he sits in the card rooms at balls to speak with them.”
Christian appeared to accept this explanation readily, but Poppy still wondered about it. Lord Richard had been expert in his handling of the cards on the few occasions she had played with him. She had beaten him every time, but narrowly, and at least once she suspected that he had let her win.
This had infuriated her at the time, but now it made her curious. What had happened to Lord Richard to cause him to give up something he loved? Lady Margaret was wonderful, but her disapproval must have been harsh indeed to have had this effect. For now Poppy saw that Lord Richard didn’t lose to be polite: he had lost because he truly did not want to win.
Or perhaps he was afraid to win.
Gleaming
Come in, Prince Christian, come in.” King Rupert of Breton beckoned his young guest into his study.
Christian entered, bowed, and waited for the king to give him permission to sit. King Rupert was fond of ceremony and refused to drop Christian’s title. In fact, his own children called him “Sire” and once Christian had heard Hermione greet her father as “Your Eminence.” It made meals very stilted.
“You wished to see me, Your Majesty?” Waved to a chair, Christian sat up straight and laid his hands on the arms of the chair. His fingers wanted to trace the intricate scrollwork, but he knew that the king also hated fidgeting.
“Indeed I did, Prince Christian. Indeed I did.”
The king sat behind a large desk, both hands flat on the blotter, and studied Christian. Christian smiled politely, and did not twitch or look away. He hadn’t committed any crimes that he was aware of, yet a feeling of guilt took root in him all the same.
“I’m sure your royal father, King Karl, told you of the ulterior motive behind these little state visits,” King Rupert said.
“Er, yes?” Christian wasn’t sure what he was asking. King Rupert couldn’t possibly be crass enough to talk about marriage in this way.
“So, what is your intention toward my daughters?”
Christian choked. Apparently King Rupert really could be that crass.
“Are you planning on marrying Hermione or Emmeline?”
“Um, I’m afraid that I haven’t really… The girls are very young …” Christian felt hot and cold at the same time. If Breton was looking for an alliance through marriage, he didn’t want to cause a war by refusing them outright. Why didn’t Rupert take this up with Christian’s father instead of ambushing him this way?
“After the New Year I believe you’re to go to Analousia?”
“I think so.” Christian fought to regain his composure.
“I don’t want to lose you to Analousia, or Spania,” Rupert said bluntly. “If they turn against us, the way Analousia went after Westfalin a few years back, you’d be forced to side with them. Hmmm.” He stroked his impressive mustache. “Perhaps someone else might do.” He stared into space, apparently forgetting that Christian was still in the room.
Looking at the clock, Christian realized that it was almost time to meet Marianne and Poppy at the Royal Gallery. He took a deep breath and stood, bowing. “If Your Majesty will excuse me? A certain royal duty calls.”
“Yes, yes, go on, Prince Christian.” King Rupert was busily jotting down notes on a piece of paper.
At the gallery, Poppy and Marianne both laughed at his panicked recital of this interview.
“Someone else?” Marianne shook her head. “I am a cousin of the royal family, but I have my cap set for my own someone else, you know.” She blushed, and Christian knew she was thinking of Dickon Thwaite.
“And I’m out of the question,” Poppy joked, taking his arm so that she and Marianne flanked him. “Mother was Rupert’s cousin, but imagine if Father were to turn on Breton! Oh, the scandal!”
“Would your father turn on them?” Christian was only idly curious. With a girl on each arm he was getting a number of envious looks and rather enjoying them.
“Oh, heavens no!” Poppy lowered her voice. “Let’s face it, King Rupert can be horrible, but Father still likes to keep on good terms with him.” She sighed. “Which is why I’m here.”
“Your father sent you, especially?” Christian couldn’t help but think that bold Poppy was an odd choice for ambassador.
“Oh no. I drew Breton out of a hat. Hyacinth, who’s very religious, is the only one who didn’t draw: Father sent her to Analousia to impress them with our piety.”
Christian was fascinated. “You drew lots to see who would go where?”
“No one cared which one they got,” she said with a shrug. “And Lilac and Orchid both wanted to go to Spania. Some famous actor is doing a play there this season. So Father used the hat to make things equal.”
“So the twelve of you—”
“Nine,” she corrected him. “Hyacinth was sent to Analousia, and Lily and Rose are married. Nobody wants a married princess,” she laughed wryly.
“True.” He paused. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
Poppy shook her head.
“It shouldn’t,” Marianne put in. “Any girl with a dowry is told from the day she’s born that she has to marry just the right person for just the right reasons at just the right time.” She grimaced. “All you can hope for is that he’s got teeth. And hair.”
“Oh, don’t be so put upon,” Poppy said. “Your parents would never force you to marry anyone you didn’t like.”
They left the gallery and went out onto the grounds. The Royal Gallery was housed in a grand mansion with extensive gardens behind, which were a work of art in and of themselves. The trees had been sculpted into perfectly smooth cones, and the hedges were shaped like sea serpents and other fantastical creatures.
“Not bad,” Poppy said with a critical eye. “But that yew is on its last legs.”
“A gardening expert, are we?” Christian liked Poppy, but he thought she was a rather strange girl. She hated dancing but was very good at it, and meekly went riding every day despite being a terrible rider. She gambled, and could swear quite colorfully (as he had discovered one day when the more spirited horse she was trying threw her in the park). And while she claimed to be fond of the ladylike art of knitting, the “socks” he had seen her working on were bizarrely large.
And now it seemed that she was a trained gardener.
“I don’t actually care about growing anything myself,” she explained. “But Father’s gardens are considered the finest in Ionia. He had them created for my mother, who was terribly homesick, and at first it was only to remind her of this.” She made a wide gesture with one hand to indi
cate the sweeping green lawns before them. “But in the end he became so involved that he’s even developed a number of new roses.”
“How do you develop a new rose?” Christian could barely tell the difference between a rose and a daisy.
“I really don’t know.” She shrugged. “But they’re all named after my mother: Queen Maude, Maude’s Beauty, Beloved Maude. One of my sisters asked once why Father didn’t name a rose after any of us, and he pointed out what the rest of us were thinking: who names a flower ‘Poppy’s Rose’?”
“Daisy’s Rose,” Marianne put in.
Christian started to laugh, but a strange feeling came over him. It was happening with greater frequency now: the glimpses of green in the corners of his eyes, the faint sparkle in the air. It mostly happened when he was near large windows, but walking through the Mirror Gallery at the palace also made him uneasy.
He looked around and saw a small greenhouse half-hidden behind a hedge. The glass did have a faint greenish tint, but nothing like what he thought he’d seen.
“What is it? Do they have exotic flowers?” Marianne peered toward the little house. “It looked green for a moment, but now it looks bare.”
“Green? You saw it too?” Christian tried not to sound too eager. He’d thought his eyes were playing tricks again.
“I didn’t see anything,” Poppy said. “Except the fish in that pond there.” She looked as though she were going to spear one of them with the tip of her furled parasol. Really, she was an odd girl.
“No matter,” Christian said uneasily, steering them away from the greenhouse and the fish. With a note of forced casualness he asked if they cared to join him at a nearby tea shop for some refreshments.
“Of course we do,” Poppy said, turning her back on the pond readily. “Young ladies are always hungry, you know, because we’re not allowed to eat properly in front of potential suitors.”
“What about me?” He wasn’t sure if he was offended or not.
“You? But you’re our friend,” Poppy told him, linking her arm through his again. “Like an older brother.”
“Ooh, I love strawberry icing,” said Marianne. The green glass house seemed to be completely forgotten.
But Christian couldn’t forget. What did it mean?
And what did Poppy mean by an “older” brother?
Invited
A week after Poppy visited the Royal Gallery with Christian and Marianne, the Seadown household received a royal invitation. They were in the breakfast room and Poppy was pretending to like kippers when it came.
The butler presented his silver tray with the thick invitation on it with great reverence, and Lady Margaret looked a bit wary as she took it. Though Her Ladyship was a cousin of the king’s, royal invitations had been rather thin since Poppy arrived. The princess had been presented to King Rupert and Queen Edith, but other than that had not set foot inside the palace. Poppy hoped that her sisters were receiving warmer welcomes; from their letters that appeared to be the case.
Marianne was practically bouncing in her seat with excitement. “Will there be a gala? With fireworks?” She turned to Poppy. “It’s almost the queen’s birthday. Last year they had a gala, with food and music and fireworks!” Her eyes took on a dreamy look. “And Dickon Thwaite kissed me in a rose bower…”
Lord Richard put down his newspaper. “Young Thwaite did what?”
Marianne blushed bright pink and applied herself to her kippers. Poppy caught her host’s gaze, and they both grinned.
“Whatever it is,” Lord Richard said mildly as he went back to his paper, “I hope that it is properly chaperoned this time. And that there is a card room for Poppy.”
Lady Margaret read the invitation twice. “This is most exciting,” she said finally. “And also a bit… unusual.”
“Tell us!” Marianne tried to snatch the invitation from her mother, who calmly held it out of her reach.
“Well, it appears that there will not just be a gala for the queen’s birthday, but a masked ball two weeks later as well.” Lady Margaret shook her head. “Rupert has never done something like this before.”
“Rupert has never wanted a houseguest to get married so badly,” Lord Richard remarked from behind the paper. “Having ties to the Danelaw’s navy is nothing to sneeze at, and the princesses are too young for Christian.”
“I’d best not go,” Poppy said. “Seeing me will only remind everyone of Alfred, and Queen Edith detests gambling besides.”
Her hosts protested, but Poppy was adamant. Upstairs, Marianne continued to pester Poppy. Poppy lay across the other girl’s bed, knitting something pale blue and fuzzy.
“Don’t be a goose, Poppy, you must come.” Marianne was posing in front of the mirror, sucking in her cheeks and batting her eyelashes. “What is that you’re making now? Giant garters to go with the giant socks?”
“Those socks turned out beautifully, thank you very much,” Poppy retorted. “Since you kept mocking them, I intend to give them to your mother at the holidays. This is a scarf.”
“Ooh, for Christian?”
“For you, actually, since you mocked the bed socks,” Poppy said dryly. She sat up and held the coiled blue thing against Marianne’s neck. “Not with that gown, of course,” she said. “It will hang down in a long curl. You’ll love it, especially with your dark blue gown.”
A heavy sigh preceded the maid, Ellen, as she came in. “I wish I had more than one gown,” she muttered.
“You do,” Poppy said shortly. “I’ve seen them.”
Ellen gave her a baleful look. “Not nice ones.”
Poppy gave up and turned her attention to her knitting. Ellen seemed to know that Mrs. Hanks would never fire her, and she used it as an excuse to address Poppy and Marianne like she was a rather depressing social acquaintance. She wasn’t stupid, though, and was respectful enough whenever an adult was nearby.
“Her Ladyship says that the dressmaker will be here soon to discuss your new gowns, Lady Marianne,” Ellen said. “The princess, too, if she likes.” Her sour tone made it clear that she thought Poppy was a fool for not wanting a new ball gown.
Ellen stomped about the room, loudly tidying up and rearranging chairs. “Eavesdropping,” Poppy thought, as Marianne pored over her collection of magazines, looking for just the right gown.
“I want something spectacular for the masked ball,” she said to Poppy. “That’s going to be the really grand affair. But you’ll need at least one new gown: my birthday ball will be right between the two royal parties!” She paused. “I hope everyone won’t be too busy to come to my birthday.”
“Of course I’ll come to that,” Poppy reassured Marianne. “Everyone will! I just don’t know about the masquerade at the palace.”
“You really should attend,” Lady Margaret said, coming into the room.
“I’m not even sure that I was invited,” Poppy said, looking for an excuse to get out of the royal celebrations once and for all. “If it was for the Seadown family… Invitations have come specifically for me in the past.” She smiled inwardly, thinking that she had hit on the perfect answer.
“Actually, what it said was that ‘every eligible young lady was invited along with her guardians,’” Lady Margaret gave Poppy a triumphant smile. “You happen to be an eligible young lady.”
“And so am I,” Ellen said.
They turned to look at her.
“I’m an eligible young lady,” she said louder. She thrust her chin out. “And you know that I wasn’t born a maid.”
Poppy gave a low whistle. She had to admire Ellen’s bravery. Sullenness was one thing, but coming right out with her grievance in front of her employer was quite another.
Lady Margaret, however, was not in the least bit nonplussed. She smiled at Ellen and gave a little nod.
“That is true, my dear,” she said. “And there is no reason why you should not attend the balls. We will have some gowns—”
“I don’t need your charity, thank you,?
?? Ellen interrupted, her face turning red. “I’ll get my own gowns.”
Dropping her knitting, Poppy leveled her gaze at Ellen. “You could be a bit more gracious!”
“It’s all right, Poppy,” Lady Margaret said gently, handing Poppy her needles and snarl of yarn. “If you do change your mind, Ellen, please tell me. I would be happy to help you find some suitable gowns.” She smiled at the young woman.
“I don’t need charity,” Ellen repeated, her face cloudy.
Ellen stumped out and they could breathe again.
“You’d think she would be a little more grateful,” Poppy said. That was as gracious as she could manage.
Lady Margaret shook her head. “Poor child. Life has been hard for her.”
“It would be awful to go from having maids to being a maid,” Marianne agreed. Then she wrinkled her nose. “But I wish she wouldn’t snap at us. We’re not responsible for her father’s downfall!”
Poppy pursed her lips. “What if you had a ball gown made—supposedly for me—and we gave it to Ellen so it wouldn’t go to waste? Since I’m not going to the gala.”
“Yes, you are!” Marianne poked Poppy in the ribs.
“An interesting idea, though, Poppy,” said Lady Margaret. “I don’t know where she’ll get a gown otherwise. Perhaps I’ll have one of Marianne’s made over for her, so it doesn’t seem too overbearing.”
“Just don’t let Ellen help,” Poppy said. “It won’t do her any good if she sets it on fire trying to iron out a wrinkle.”
They heard a scratching sound at the door. “The dressmaker, ma’am,” said the butler, and they followed him to the sitting room where the fussy little man was waiting with his pattern books and measuring tapes.
“All three of us need gowns for the upcoming royal gala and the masquerade,” Lady Margaret told him. “Even Her Highness. That’s in addition to the gowns we ordered for Marianne’s birthday ball, of course.”
“Ah, a charming pair of young ladies,” the man said. “With such dark hair and fine figures, they could be sisters. And you, Lady Margaret—a third, only slightly older sister.” He bowed and kissed her hand.