“It’s…nothing, really,” he stammered.
But Azalea had already set the plate to the marble with a clunk and a clatter of spoons, and produced Bramble’s clean handkerchief from her sleeve.
“Hush,” she said, taking his hand and dabbing at the cut on his knuckle. “It isn’t bad. We’ll clean it right up. What were you thinking, using such a soiled handkerchief?”
The cut wasn’t deep, and the gentleman held still while Azalea tended to it. His large hand dwarfed her own, and she only just managed to wrap the handkerchief about it.
“My horse slipped on the way here,” he explained. His voice reminded Azalea of rich, thick cream, the sort one could add to any recipe to make it taste better. “The Courtroad bridge. I only just arrived.”
Azalea nodded, thinking of how the King avoided that icy bridge every winter. Expertly, she tied the ends of the handkerchief in a tight, dainty knot. The gentleman touched it.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You probably shouldn’t stay much longer,” said Azalea. “You need a proper bandage on it, or it will get infected and throb every time you turn a lady into the next step. You wouldn’t want that.”
“Assuredly not.” A hint of a smile graced his lips.
Azalea looked up at him again, this time past the mud and rumpled cravat and hair. Something about him was strikingly familiar. The way he stood; his solemn, gentle temperament. He had a long nose, but it was his eyes, warm and brown, that marked his features. Everyone in her family had blue or green eyes. The brown caught her off guard and fascinated her.
“Azalea, where’s our food?” the tree behind her whispered.
“We’re sta-aa-arving!”
Azalea kicked back into the boughs behind her, silencing the susurrus with a clink of ornaments.
“Did you—” said the gentleman.
“No,” said Azalea. “Have we met before?”
The gentleman smiled again and touched the corner of his bandage handkerchief across the embroidered letters B.E.W. “Ages ago,” he said. “When we were both younger. You…don’t remember me?”
Azalea shook her head.
“Sorry,” she said. “What’s your name?”
He inclined his head. “Lord Bradford.”
“Bradford!” said Azalea. “Like the former prime minister?”
“Very much like,” he said. And Azalea caught the spark of light in his eyes, twinkling through his solemn expression. It made her smile. No wonder he looked so familiar! She considered him and wondered if he knew that all of Eathesbury expected him to run for P.M., like his father. With his tousled hair and mussed suit, he didn’t quite look the picture.
“You’re not…engaged for this next dance, are you?” he said. “That is, if you—”
He stopped abruptly, clamping his mouth shut. His eyes stared straight ahead. Ornaments tinkled behind them, and Azalea looked down to see a pudgy little hand reaching out from beneath the tree, grabbing at his trouser ankle. Azalea cringed.
“Not there, Ivy, you great idiot,” came a whispered voice from among the boughs. “Left—left—no, left is this way—”
The hands peeking from between the tree skirts felt around, grabbed the ends of the platter, and slowly, with clinks and clatters, dragged the plate in. Lord Bradford’s eyebrows rose as the castle of puddings inched away and disappeared beneath the boughs. Squeals echoed from the trees.
Azalea buried her face in her hands.
“Ah—” said Lord Bradford.
“Don’t,” said Azalea. “Just…don’t.”
“There you are! Oh, dear. Am I interrupting something?”
Azalea and Lord Bradford quickly stepped apart to see Lady Caversham a pace away, her eyes wide with innocence. Lady Caversham reminded Azalea of one of the dolls in the shops on Silver Street: pale and perfect and expensive. Azalea forced a smile.
“Definitely not,” she said. “He’s mended up now.”
Lord Bradford’s eyes turned back to the trees behind them, his eyebrows high on his head, and Azalea looked up at him with the most pleading expression she could muster, begging him to not make a scene.
“Oh!” Lady Caversham gave a sharp cry. “What was that?”
“What was what?” said Azalea and Lord Bradford at the same time.
“The tree! Something moved behind it!”
The color drained from Azalea’s face.
“I didn’t…see anything,” she stammered.
Lady Caversham strode forward, the wispy flounces of her skirts fluttering behind her, trying to peer through the branches. “There was something—oh! There it was again!”
“Lady Caversham,” said Lord Bradford, stepping in front of her. He offered his hand and bowed. “If I may have the honor of this next dance?”
Lady Caversham tore her eyes away from the tree and narrowed them at Lord Bradford’s offered hand. She cast a glance at Azalea, and a slight smile crossed her perfect face.
“Well, if you insist,” she said. With a look at Azalea that said I win, she grasped Lord Bradford’s outstretched hand right over the handkerchief bandage—both he and Azalea winced—and part escorted, part dragged Lord Bradford to the dance floor.
He cast a glance back at Azalea. She fought the urge to pull him back and smooth his hair down.
Azalea didn’t catch sight of him for the rest of the night. The ball wound down like a music box, the guests leaving as the hours grew late. Near midnight, when Azalea delivered yet another plate of goodies to the girls, she rolled a Christmas apple underneath the trees, and it rolled back out. They had fallen asleep.