Page 6 of The Cornish Princess
Ely giggled, allowing herself to be lured away, and the two walked, hand in hand. Alas, though Gwendolyn was jesting, she also spoke true. She was not the most discerning of fashion, but when the Prince arrived, she intended to present herself well enough that he would embrace her as an equal. With all his golden finery, she didn’t wish to face him looking like a troll, as so often she felt beneath her mother’s scrutiny.
Spying Gwendolyn’s companion,Demelza lifted a brow. “Shouldn’t you be rehearsing?” she asked.
Ely hitched her chin. “I am not needed.”
Old as thefaeriehills, Demelza was her grandmother’s maid before she was her mother’s. Hence, she was the one who’d taught Queen Eseld all the intricacies of the Cornish court. No doubt, age gave her authority. “Says who?”
To Ely’s credit, she stood taller beneath the maid’s scrutiny. “So says Mother Superior. She told me to make myself scarce.”
Hearing this, Demelza lifted both brows.
So, too, did Gwendolyn because the revelation said so much.
“And what did you do to displease her?”
“Naught,” said Ely, with a pink stain on her cheeks. “I merely pointed out that Gwendolyn had terrible taste in attire. I suggested that, despite all your great effort, Demelza, she might benefit from a discerning eye.”
“You said that?” Gwendolyn asked.
And here she believed it was her idea for Ely to attend her.
Very quickly, Ely shook her head, peering back at Demelza, who’d caught the gesture, because one grey brow lifted higher. “Well… not precisely.”
Demelza looked at the door, mayhap considering whether she was in any mood to deal with two unmanageable charges, but at long last, relented. “Very well, Elowyn. Go, sit. But do not disturb us. If your opinion is required, we’ll ask.”
Gwendolyn tried not to smile as Ely grinned victoriously and flounced over to the bed to hide behind a veritable mountain of dresses. No doubt she’d said nothing of the sort to Queen Eseld. If she’d angered the Queen at all, it was only because she wasn’t paying attention in class. That else Lady Ruan had whispered into her mother’s ear about Ely’s reluctance to dance.
No matter the reason, angering Queen Eseld was never the wisest thing to do—unless one wished to be saddled with a flat-nosed companion at supper. And now that Gwendolyn understood more about what led to that decision, she was quite certain it was her mother, not Lady Ruan, behind the pairing. As it was with her father, whatever Queen Eseld decreed, Lady Ruan would agree to, and if this were the case, there was no one in the palace who could change her mind—not Yestin, certainly not Gwendolyn.
Poor Ely.
Gwendolyn decided she would slip her a dress, knowing it would cheer her.
The Queen might not be too pleased that Gwendolyn had softened her rebuke, but she certainly wouldn’t care about the gown—and Gwendolyn should know. By now, she had stained, rented, or ruined so many dresses. Her mother never batted an eyelash. In truth, sometimes Gwendolyn wondered if she ruined them on purpose, only to see if her mother would care.
Unfortunately, to reprimand Gwendolyn, she would have to speak to Gwendolyn, and this wasn’t likely to happen, unless perforce.
Mind you, their relationship was cordial, their conversations never heated, but they were rare aspiskies. And sometimes Gwendolyn felt her mother showered her with so many gifts merely to keep her from seeking an audience to ask for favors.
And nevertheless, judging by the number of gowns she had to try on this morning, her mother was entirely too generous, if not affectionate. Even with Ely’s help, it took more than three hours to try on every gown, but thankfully, Ely’s tastes were pristine, and Demelza didn’t object to her choices—nor did she protest when Gwendolyn offered Elowyn her favorite of the lot. “What time is the Prince due?” asked Gwendolyn anxiously, while Ely sat petting her new dress—a brightly coloredcendal, dyed in a shade called Nightingale to match Ely’s fiery tresses.
She needed to get away, before it grew late, and she sorely regretted not meeting with Yestin because now there wasn’t time.
“At first light, so I’m told,” said Demelza, pulling at a thread on the dress she was altering.
Naturally, Gwendolyn was shorter than her mother—simply one more way she didn’t measure up. Her bosom was smaller, as well, and her hips wider, too. As a daughter, Gwendolyn was merely a pale shade—truly, for while her hair was yellow, her mother’s was dark as night and no matter that her manner of beauty was uncommon amidst the Dumnonii, Queen Eseld was unspeakably lovely—her eyes warm and rich as loam, lips neither thin nor cruel.
It was little wonder the King had been so willing to set aside a century’s worth of discord for the sake of their union.
When the thread did not come away, Demelza bent to set her teeth against the offending strand, snapping it quickly. In the meantime, Gwendolyn stood naked as an oak in Winter, arms crossed to conceal her bosom, the tiny hairs on her arms prickling against a draft.
Winter was gone, Spring had arrived, but April sometimes still harbored a bitter chill. “Have you met him?” Gwendolyn wondered aloud.
“Gods, no. How would I, child? I’m only a maid. Go ask your mother.” Demelza rose then, tossing the heavy dress over Gwendolyn’s head, tugging the material down.
Instinctively, Gwendolyn searched for the sleeves and sighed, knowing she would ask her mother for naught. “So,” she persisted, speaking through the thick material—a heavy, brushed suede, dyed blue, her mother’s favorite color. “Do you know if he’s anything at all like Urien?”
“Nay, child.”
