Page 27 of Charmless
The warmth in Horatio’s eyes was still there, but I sensed a constraint in him. Our opposing views of Malcolm Hawkridge had cast a shadow between us, the tension only heightened when Mal continued to be elusive.
I was sure Horatio did not believe me when I denied knowing where Mal was, but I truly did not. I did not even dare return to The Hawk’s Nest to look for him because of my fear of another encounter with Delphine.
Wherever Mal was hiding, I prayed it was somewhere far from Arcady. I was not that worried about his angry customers. Given time, the disappointed ladies’ tempers would cool. The break-in at Quad Hall was a far more serious matter. I hoped Mal would have the good sense to stay away until Horatio had apprehended the real culprit behind the attack on the aura chamber.
Although I had vigorously defended my friend, I was not naïve where Mal was concerned. He did have a reckless disdain for the law and total contempt for royal authority. Mal had been with me at midnight, but that might not be enough to entirely exonerate him. I am sure that Horatio knew as well as I did that Mal had friends as disreputable as he was, rogues with names like Long Louie and Waldo the Wharf Rat. Perhaps Horatio suspected them all of being part of this League of the Lost Heir.
It did strike me as an odd coincidence that the same night I had stolen that orb for Mal, someone had been busy pilfering aura prisms from Quad Hall. But I could not see how the two events could be connected, any more than I could believe Mal could be part of this mysterious league and weaving mad plots against the king. I would feel better about all this when I did see Mal and was able to question him. Besides wanting his reassurance, I quite simply missed my friend.
It was ironic that the two men whose company I longed for were absent from my life, while the man I had no desire to ever see again kept popping up like an evil sprite.
Just as he had pledged that he would, Prince Florian had started his wooing. Wooing? It was more like being stalked. I could scarcely set foot out of doors without the prince springing up before me. He trailed after me whenever I went to the market, insisting upon carrying my basket. Unless I wanted to engage in an undignified scuffle, I was obliged to let him. Florian would toss back his golden mane, accompanying me on my rounds to the baker’s, the fishmongers, and the vegetable sellers. As I picked over the produce, Florian regarded me with soulful adoration, heaving deep longing sighs. It was enough to entirely put a woman off her turnips.
Florian never called upon me at home. I might have been grateful for that if he had not insisted upon making his wooing a public spectacle. He absolutely loved the crowds that hedrew when he pursued me through the marketplace. To the Midtown folk, Florian’s courtship was as entertaining as a troop of strolling players performing, “The Noble Prince and the Coy Maiden,”a play in three acts. Myself, I would have been inclined to entitle the piece,The Irritating Idiot and the Frustrated Female.”
I have always preferred to lead a quiet existence, but the prince’s antics were turning me into the most notorious woman in the kingdom. The sighing, the distraught pressing of his hand to the region of his heart were bad enough, but Florian penned off reams of bad poetry which he recited aloud to me over the flour and sugar bins. Epics like “Ode to Ella’s Bright Blue Eyes which hath cruelly slain me.” Or “To Ella’s rosebud Lips that so stingily deny me her kiss.”
I bore this all with what patience I could muster, until the afternoon he composed the ode to my nose.
“Oh, pert adorable nose! Wherefore dost thou sniff with scorn at thy loving prince?”
“Stop!” I groaned. “Please! No more poetry. I do not think Your Highness would find my nose all that adorable when I have a cold and strings of mucus dribble out of my nostrils.”
Florian looked thoroughly revolted. I experienced a brief flicker of hope that I had finally managed to repulse him enough to leave me alone. But to my horror, the prince dropped to one knee. Setting my basket down, he clasped his hands together in an imploring gesture.
“Pardon me, my dearest. I can see that my wretched paeans have offended you. I was only trying to express the depth of my love. If you do not say that you forgive me, my poor devoted heart will break in two. I vow I shall not stir from this spot until you do.”
This earned the prince a loud chorus of ‘aww’ from the watching crowd, especially the ladies. Everyone glared at me as though I was a monster.
I gave a weary sigh of defeat. “I forgive you. Now will you please stand up?”
Florian leaped triumphantly to his feet to embrace me, and the crowd applauded. When he tried to kiss me, I turned my head so that he only succeeded in licking my cheek. This garnered me some hisses and boos until Florian silenced the crowd with a magnanimous sweep of his hand.
“Hush, my friends. No lady worth having was ever easily won. I am confident that my steadfast affection will soon thaw my Ella’s cold, cold heart.”
More applause for the prince, more nasty looks for me. I slunk away as soon as I could, not even bothering to retrieve my basket from Florian. I was fast acquiring a reputation as the most heartless, obstinate woman in all of Arcady. But everyone, especially Florian, believed I would relent in the end. What sort of madwoman would continue to spurn the love of such a devoted and handsome prince?
This was all so frustrating and embarrassing, I would have happily barricaded myself in my library, becoming as much of a recluse as my father had ever been. But I was finding little peace at home either.
Rhufawn Smythe, the royal herald assigned to our district, arrived on my doorstep at least twice a day, bringing me gifts from the prince: nosegays, chocolates and love letters that were even worse than his poetry.
Far worse than the gifts from the prince were the other packages delivered to my door. After the word spread throughout Midtown that I had been chosen as Florian’s bride, the merchants fell over themselves to curry favor with theirfuture princess. Shopkeepers who had taken scant notice of me before, were now eager to extend unlimited credit.
I was dismayed to discover my stepmother had taken advantage of this offer. Growing up as the only child of a wealthy man from the Heights, Em had never learned to be practical or good at managing money.
When my father died, he left control of his modest legacy to me, even though I was so young at the time, barely eighteen. It was quite a burden to place on my youthful shoulders, but I quickly realized the wisdom of my father’s decision. If Em had been left in charge, we would have ended up bankrupt long ago and reduced to living in one of those wretched cottages in Misty Bottoms or worse. If one grew too poor to afford even that sort of mean dwelling, the next step was banishment. King August abhorred beggars. Unfortunate souls who could not pay their taxes were routinely rounded up by the Border Scutcheons and driven into the mysterious fenland beyond the Conger River, never to be seen or heard from again.
Every time the king devised some new levy or raised our taxes, I had nightmares about this happening to my family and redoubled my efforts to stretch our income. Em often grumbled that I pinched our pennies until they shrieked. Consequently, when I discovered that Em had been on a spending spree, our parlor heaped with costly bolts of silk, reams of lace and caskets of jewelry, I finally exploded.
“Em! What were you thinking? You know we cannot afford all this stuff. Everything must be returned at once.”
“Oh, pooh, my dear,” Em said, unpacking one of those ridiculously over-priced bonnets from Martha’s Millinery. “Time enough to worry about paying the bills after we are settled at the palace. I am sure you don’t want me and your sisters turning up at your wedding looking like charwomen.”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” I shouted. “There will be no wedding. I am never going to marry that frapping fool.”
I regretted my outburst immediately when my stepmother’s lip quivered. Em has always been a sensitive soul, wilting beneath a raised voice or harsh word.
“I am sorry for shouting at you, Em,” I began, but she shrank from me, tears spilling down her cheeks.
