Page 10 of Charmless
I darted into my room and changed my old worn frock for one of my few respectable gowns. Flinching, I managed to work my sore feet into soft woolen stockings and sturdy, but comfortable walking boots. I spent a few anxious minutes in front of the mirror as I brushed my hair and tried to decide. Should I tie it back with a ribbon or simply let it fall loose about my shoulders. I had almost opted for the ribbon when I recalled something Horatio had said to me.
I prefer you with your hair down. It makes you look softer, approachable.
I smiled at the memory as I ran the brush through my hair until it was soft and shining. It had been a long time since I had taken such pains with my appearance, my heart quickening with anticipation of meeting a lover. Not since those days, seven summers ago, when I had stolen away to meet Harper, the handsome itinerant musician who had broken my heart.
Except that his name had not been Harper, nor had he been a traveling minstrel. My fingers tightened on the brush, my smile vanishing as I relived that dreadful moment at the ball when I had discovered the truth. The lad with the golden voice I had known as Harper was Prince Ryland, one of Florian’s younger brothers.
A prince in disguise wooing a lovely young maiden. What could be more romantic than that? Most girls would sigh. Except that it wasn’t, not when the prince left you waiting all night for an elopement that never happened, vanishing from your life without a word of explanation. The worst part of encounteringHarper again— or I should say, Ryland— was that he still professed his love for me.
“There has never been anyone but you. I have not even touched my lute since I last saw you. When I had to leave you, all the music died.”
He had looked so sad and sincere, I had even been enticed into kissing him again. It made me angry to recall my own weakness and that I had been willing to listen to his explanation of why he had abandoned me. Ryland had insisted he had done it for my sake. When word of his secret trysts with me had reached the palace, he had been warned to stay away from me.
Warned by the same king who now seemed ready to accept a Midtown girl instead of a wealthy princess as his daughter-in-law? Was Florian merely bolder when it came to defying his father or had Ryland not loved me enough to do so? Either way, it no longer mattered because my heart now belonged to a very different sort of man, one who was honest and true.
As I swirled my shawl about my shoulders, I vowed that nothing was going to threaten my happiness with Horatio, neither the arrogant determination of Florian to wed me, nor any lingering painful memories about his brother. But first I needed to avoid my stepmother and all our newly found dearest friends. Cracking open my bedchamber door, I crept into the upper hall and tiptoed down the stairs.
I need not have worried about being so cautious. My quiet steps could not have been heard above the loud hum of conversation and laughter emanating from the parlor. It sounded as though Em had most of the neighborhood in there, no doubt swilling our tea and gobbling up the last of our jam and muffins. The thought caused my stomach to emit an angry growl. I sought to ignore it as I contemplated my next course of action.
I didn’t dare risk going out the front door for fear of encountering even more well-wishers coming up the walk. My best avenue of escape was through the library. I darted inside and headed for one of the windows.
Knotting my shawl about my shoulders so that it didn’t slip off, I flung up the sash and climbed out, lowering myself to the ground. I crouched behind an overgrown lilac bush, realizing I couldn’t just slink across our rear gardens. Anyone who chanced to glance out the parlor windows would easily spot me. My safest route lay in cutting through my neighbor’s gardens.
A low wooden fence separated our property from Mrs. Biddlestone’s. I have had no trouble scaling it ever since I was a child. But my skirts had been shorter then, and I had been much more agile. As I vaulted over the top, my toes caught in my petticoat and I fell, landing with a jarring thud in Mrs. B’s delphiniums. My arm banged against one of those colorful rocks she used to line her garden bed.
“Ow,” I whimpered, struggling to sit upright. My elbow was throbbing, and I was going to end up with a spectacular bruise. But it could have been worse. I could have landed in the rose bushes. Or on Mrs. Biddlesworth.
I should have paused before scaling her fence, to make sure my neighbor was not in her back garden. But there she was, her bead-like eyes glaring at me from beneath the brim of a straw hat. I scrambled to my feet and babbled, “Hallo, Mrs. B. I know this must look a trifle odd, but I can explain and I am so sorry about your flowers. But look, I am sure I can fix them.”
I bent down and attempted to resurrect one of the delphiniums I had flattened. Its head flopped over as though I had broken its neck. In my efforts to fix it, I decapitated it entirely.
“Sorry,” I said weakly, holding out the handful of broken petals like a guilty peace offering. Mrs. Biddlesworth sucked in her breath with a furious hiss.
Despite our less than amicable relationship, I have never thought of Mrs. Biddlesworth as particularly menacing. She barely stood five feet tall, a round dumpling of a woman. But even dumplings can appear dangerous when they advance upon you, glowering and brandishing a pair of pruning shears.
I backed away from her. “Please, Mrs. B. I am sure we can work something out. I will buy you some new bulbs and replant that entire bed.”
My words trailed off as her face contorted in a most violent and peculiar fashion. Oh, frap, I thought. I had finally done it, aggravated the poor woman to the point of having an apoplectic fit.
“Mrs. Biddlesworth, perhaps you had better sit down.”
Her lips twisted and stretched wide at the corners, exposing her teeth. “Pray accept my sincerest felicitations, my dear.”
Was it possible that Mrs. Biddlesworth was smilingat me? Or trying to do so. I have seen pleasanter expressions on the faces of stone gargoyles.
“Felicitations? For what?” I asked.
“Why for landing the prince, you silly goose.”
“Oh.That.”
“When will His Highness be sweeping you off to his castle far, far, far away?”
“You do realize that his palace is only a few miles from here, just up the hill, but?—”
“Oh, that will be quite far enough.” She chortled, clicking her shears. “When is the wedding to take place? Name the day when I shall— I mean— you shall become the happiest woman in Arcady.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot do that.”
