“Naturally—” said Azalea, relieved. She picked his hat from the gravel and helped him with the books. “Sorry. I just had to apologize. About tonight. Honestly, we don’t kick or bite or throw potatoes at all our guests.”
A crooked smile touched Lord Bradford’s lips.
“Your family has spirit,” he said, taking his hat from Azalea. “I enjoyed the evening.”
“Well, yes, you’ve just come from a war,” said Azalea.
Lord Bradford laughed. It was a nice laugh. Quiet, unpracticed, sincere. Azalea liked it.
“I’m so sorry we’ve kept this for such a long time,” she said, pulling the watch from her skirt pocket. She unfolded Mother’s handkerchief from around it, and offered it to Lord Bradford cradled in her hands. “We shouldn’t have taken it in the first place.”
Lord Bradford’s eyebrows rose at the offering, and he opened his mouth, then closed it. He lowered his eyes to the books in his hands, then back to Azalea, and he managed a smile.
“When we first met,” he said, “ages ago, you gave me a candy stick. Just like you did now, with your hands like that. Do you remember?”
Azalea raised an eyebrow.
“It happened when my father had just died,” he said, quietly. “You came to the graveyard, licking a candy stick. You saw me. You put the stick in my hands, folded my fingers over it, and kissed my fingertips.”
“That must have been sticky,” said Azalea.
Lord Bradford laughed. A warm, tickling sensation rippled through Azalea, and a memory flickered through her mind; one of wandering off from Mother on market day. The air smelled of cider. And then, peeking through the iron slats of the graveyard gate and seeing a forlorn boy on a stone bench. The memory, so distant, felt like a faded dream.
“You know,” he said, “all these years I thought you were your sister.”
Azalea gave a nod-shrug. “A lot of people make that mistake. It’s because we’re so close in age—less than a year apart each. In fact, of all of us, Clover looks the oldest, we think.”
“I still have your handkerchief, from the Yuletide.”
“Raspberries, do you really?”
He produced a crumpled, clean handkerchief, and gave it to Azalea. She tried to hand him the watch, but he wouldn’t take it.
“It’s still for ransom, is it not?” he said. “I’ll collect it when I set the tower again.”
Azalea smiled, warmth rising to her cheeks. “Well, it has been awfully useful. Thank you, Lord Bradford.”
He mounted with ease, even with the books, and smiled a crooked smile.
“Mr. Bradford,” he said sheepishly.
“Mr. Bradford,” said Azalea. And now, her cheeks burned. It wasn’t unpleasant.
“Thank you,” he said, tipping his hat. “For the pleasant evening. Sleep well, Princess Bramble.”
“What?” said Azalea.
But he was already off at a canter, spattering gravel. Azalea gaped after him, then turned to the handkerchief in her hands. The sloppily embroidered B.E.W. in the corner made all the warmth drain from Azalea’s face.
“Bramble!” she said. Ever since the Yuletide, he had thought her Bramble!
Azalea looked up to see him pull up at the gate. His eyes caught her, still at the steps, and he smiled and saluted. Then he was gone.
Azalea hugged herself, thinking that she would have to set things straight when she saw him again. If she saw him again.
“Good night,” she said.
CHAPTER 14
That week, Azalea taught her sisters the Entwine. It was a tricky waltzlike dance, and a competitive one, where the lady and the gentleman each held an end of a long sash and weren’t allowed to let go. The gentleman would try to “catch” the lady—bringing the sash about her wrists by pulling her into under-arm turns and stepping about her, while the lady would turn and unspin and twist out of his arms, trying to keep the sash from tangling. Two years before, Mother had brought a skilled dance master to lessons to dance the Entwine with Azalea. Azalea had deftly ducked and slipped from his quick, skilled movements, and by the end of the three minutes, both of them exhausted, the dance master smiled and gave her a bow of admiration and respect. Ever since then, whenever she danced the Entwine, Azalea felt a high-trilling piccolo in her chest and her feet felt like springs.
Bramble tied a handkerchief around her arm and played the gentleman, speaking in gruff tones and making such a spectacle that the girls laughed madly.
“My laaaaaadeee,” said Bramble, bowing deeply to Azalea. The girls giggled uproariously, and Azalea sighed. Teaching closed dances without a gentleman was the most difficult thing so far.
“My lady,” came another voice, and all the girls turned to see Mr. Keeper at the entrance, watching them with dark eyes. He smiled, and the two long dimples on each side of his mouth deepened.
Azalea stepped back. The piccolo trill in her chest glissandoed like mad. She swallowed, discreetly trying to wipe her hands on her dress. His eyes seem to see right into her.
“Do forgive me,” he said, stepping onto the dance floor. His feet made no sound. “I could not help but notice. Perhaps I could have the honor of this dance?”
A hush fell over the girls. Azalea imagined herself in Mr. Keeper’s arms, and the piccolo trill in her chest squeaked into tones only tiny birds could hear. If he danced like he moved—in smooth ripples—he was a very good dancer indeed.