The King set his papers down at this.
“I think we need to send for Sir John,” said Azalea. “I know he was here this morning, but…something’s not right.”
The image of Mother’s lips, white, then slowly, slowly turning to red, passed through Azalea’s mind, and she rubbed her fingers. The King stood.
“Very well,” he said. “I will fetch him myself straightaway.” He took his hat and overcoat from the stand near the fireplace. “Tend to the guests. They will be arriving soon. And—” The King’s brow furrowed. “Take care that your sisters remain in their room. I’ve made them promise to stay inside, but—it is them.”
“You made them promise to stay inside?” said Azalea, indignant. “Even Bramble?”
“Especially Bramble.”
“But it’s tradition to peek at the Yuletide! Even Mother—”
“Tradition be hanged, Miss Azalea. I will not allow it, not after the complete debacle last year.”
Azalea pursed her lips. She didn’t want the ball to end like it had last year, naturally, but caging them up in the room was unfair.
“That will do, Miss Azalea,” said the King. “I’ve sent goodies to your room, and a dissected picture for them to piece together. They shan’t be desolate.”
The King turned to go, and Azalea spoke after him.
“You’ll be back within the hour?” she said. “For the opening dance?”
“Really, Azalea,” said the King, putting on his stiff hat. “Is everything about dancing to you?”
It was, actually, but Azalea decided now wasn’t the best time to point that out.
“You will be back in time?” she said.
The King waved his hand in dismissal. “As you say,” he said, and he left.
CHAPTER 2
Nearly an hour later, when the tower chimed eight and guests filled the ballroom like brightly colored bouquets, and perfumes and nutmeg and pine scented the air, and the Christmas trees in the corner glimmered and sparkled with glass ornaments, Azalea found herself clasped on the arm of Prime Minister Fairweller.
“He truly can’t come?” said Azalea, worried, as Fairweller led her to the center of the ballroom floor. “Is everything all right? Or is he just trying to get out of dancing?”
“He sends his regrets,” said Fairweller, “and admonishes you to tend to the guests. He wishes to remain with your mother. Your doctor did not seem concerned.”
Azalea pushed the image of white lips out of her mind. Instead, she glowered at Fairweller’s black-gloved hand on her arm, escorting her. Why did the King have to ask Fairweller to take his place? Fairweller wasn’t bad looking, and he was young—especially for a Prime Minister. But, heavens! Azalea remembered their former Prime Minister, a Lord Bradford. Though the same age as the King himself, he had died when she was little. He was an agreeable gentleman who smelled of soap and coffee and always had a hint of a smile and a light in his eyes.
Fairweller, by contrast, was a thundercloud. He never smiled. The only color he wore was black, even his waistcoat and cufflinks, giving the impression of a sleek, overlarge spider. With the added disadvantage that you couldn’t squash him.
“Is Mother having the baby?” said Azalea. “It’s a bit early for the baby, isn’t it?”
“I hardly know,” said Fairweller.
Azalea gave him a dangerously sweet smile.
“I hope you’re good at dancing,” she said through her teeth. “Or this ball will be completely ruined.”
Fairweller brought her into perfect dance position.
The musicians began, the chattering hushed, and Azalea stepped off in waltz time with Fairweller. To her surprise, he was a masterful dancer. He swept her along the dance floor, guiding her about the corners and between skirts, flowing perfectly with the music. In fact, the only thing wrong with dancing with Fairweller was…well, dancing with Fairweller.
The waltz ended, the Prime Minister escorted her to the edge of the ballroom, and Azalea was flocked with gentlemen all asking for a dance.
The lively music, the decorations, the snow whorling past the windows and reflected in the mirrors on the other side, and the dancing transformed the ballroom into something almost magical. Azalea nearly forgot, as she danced the jigs, promenades, and waltzes, that the ballroom was old and drafty and the windows leaked when it rained.
She grinned inside every time a gentleman took her into dance position and his eyebrows rose, and rose even farther as he would lead her about the ballroom. They swept past ladies in chiffon and lace, their hoopskirts swaying with her breeze. She danced lightly, followed at even the slightest of touches, had a firm frame and strong form, and never forgot a step. By the time the gentlemen escorted her to a velvet chair at the ballroom’s side, they beamed and complimented her on her grace. Azalea returned the compliment with a sleek, deep curtsy that made her green skirts swath the floor in a silky puddle, and giggled inside when their mouths dropped. One day, she was determined, she would be quite as graceful as Mother. Mother didn’t walk. She glided.
Peals rumbled the floor as the tower chimed ten, and the guests began a bouncy polka. Azalea, who did not like the hard, breathless dance, slipped past the blur of dancers to the corner where the glimmering Christmas trees stood, hoping to spend a few moments out of sight. The ball had gone perfectly so far. If only Mother and her sisters were here, it would complete everything.