“Rule number seventeen,” said Eve reluctantly, from the other side.
The King straightened. His face held an odd expression. For a moment, he simply stood. Then his expression lapsed into unreadable, and he turned away.
The dinner of basted chicken, potatoes, and cake progressed well. Bramble seized the salt cellar, and Ivy spooned gobs of jam onto her chicken, but overall they behaved properly. At the end of the table, Fairweller and Lord Bradford discussed politics, and the King remained pensive.
“Parliamentary elections begin this next year,” Fairweller was saying. “The House could use a fine young head…. His Majesty and I thought you might be persuaded.”
Next to Azalea, Bramble had borrowed one of Delphinium’s drawing pencils and was writing on her napkin.
“To run?” said Lord Bradford.
His way of speaking fascinated Azalea. He was frugal with words. It was a stark contrast to her life with a dozen girls and thousands of easy words.
Kale, next to Lord Bradford, had eaten one piece of potato and seemed no longer hungry. She stood on her chair and reached for Lord Bradford’s wine. When he moved it out of reach, she pouted and sat down hard on her chair. Then she snuggled up to him, rubbed her cheek against his arm, and bit him.
Lord Bradford inhaled sharply.
“I’d rather not,” he said to Fairweller, gently untangling Kale from his arm. “I haven’t a head for politics.”
“In my experience,” said Fairweller, “the best men for the country are those who do not. Your father was a very fine member of government. It has always been expected that you would run as well.”
Azalea caught a glimpse of what Bramble was writing on her napkin, faint in Delphinium’s violet pencil:
We still have your watch. You can have it back tonight. All you need to do is sneak up after dinner, set the tower, and flee the country. Agreed?
Azalea burned with embarrassment as Bramble folded the napkin around the pencil and passed it to Lord Bradford with the rolls. Lord Bradford took it and unfolded it in his lap. His dark eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. Then he folded the napkin and placed it under his plate. Bramble’s yellow-green eyes narrowed.
“I’m flattered,” said Lord Bradford in his rich cream voice. Azalea hung on to the timbre of it, wondering if he had ever sung a glee or a catch. It was a voice that would mellow out the choir and give it a fuller sound. Lord Bradford continued. “I would rather not run for parliament.”
Bramble had taken another pencil from Delphinium, and Azalea’s napkin, and wrote something new.
You’re afraid of the King. Admit it.
Azalea grimaced at her untouched food, burning in humiliation as Lord Bradford took the napkin and read it. This time, he looked to be discreetly writing something back beneath the table.
“It’s not a matter of wanting to or not,” said Fairweller, who appeared more annoyed by the minute. “Or even what party you will run for. It is more a matter of duty. I find it odd you are shying away from this. He would be a fine member of the House, would he not, Your Highness?”
“What? Hmm? Oh. Yes. He would.”
Fairweller blinked at the King for a moment, in which Lord Bradford handed Bramble her napkin. She opened it and turned a rosy pink.
My lady, it read, who isn’t?
Bramble pursed her lips and kicked Lord Bradford beneath the table—hard. His face twitched before regaining its solemn expression. Azalea buried her face in her hands.
“All we ask is for you to consider it. That is all,” said Fairweller.
“Oh.” Lord Bradford’s voice was slightly strangled. “Yes. Thank you.”
Bramble threw the pencil-smudged napkin onto her plate. “I’m done,” she said. “May we go to our room now?”
For the first time since the beginning of dinner, the King snapped to awareness.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Certainly not. To the library, young ladies.” He stood and cast a significant look at them all. “Those are the rules.”
Already horrified by her sisters’ treatment of Lord Bradford, Azalea spent the evening in the library sitting on the sofa across from him, dying a thousand tiny deaths. Delphinium “accidentally” spilled coffee on him, Lily crawled to his shoe and began gnawing on his laces, and Ivy and Hollyhock crowded him on both sides, stitching samplers and asking him every two minutes what he thought of them. He replied he thought them very fine.
In fact, he almost seemed to be enjoying himself. Inexplicably, so did the King.
Intent on saving some aspect of the evening, Azalea herded the girls upstairs, then slipped to the front court, where Mr. Pudding tended to Lord Bradford’s horse. Azalea explained why she was out, and he gave her the reins, patted her on the head, and went inside.
Azalea waited patiently, twisting the reins around her hands. Lord Bradford’s horse pawed the gravel, but was well trained enough that it did not try to nose her hair, a horse trait Azalea hated. Presently Lord Bradford appeared at the door with a stack of books, probably political, as the King and Fairweller bid him good night. Azalea ducked behind the horse, grateful that black blended in with so many things.
When the door closed, Azalea stepped out from behind the horse.
“Lord Bradford—”
“Gaah!”
He fell back against the banister, tripping over the stairs.
“Sorry! Sorry!” said Azalea. “I didn’t frighten you?”
“No, no, quite all right,” he said. He peeled himself from the banister and set to picking up the scattered books. “Naturally—”