Lord Teddie stared at the glass nook doors, then at the flat cake breakfast, then back at the doors. His mouth tightened. He leaned and shoved his plate away.
“The devil,” he said, in a tone that was not jovial or cheerful at all. “My ship leaves soon, doesn’t it. I suppose I ought to go catch it, then! Good day!”
Azalea found Bramble, several minutes later, huddled behind the curtains on the window seat. The window light made her deep red hair fiery. Bent over with squeaky sobs, she fumbled with a needle and thread and tried, one-handed, to mend the shabby bit of lace on her cuff.
“I hate him,” she sobbed. “And I hate me.”
Azalea took Bramble’s arm and mended the cuff herself, then unpinned Bramble’s hair and combed it until Bramble dipped into a fitful sleep. She could understand, a little, how she felt.
Their sulky moods trickled down to the younger ones, who argued and whined, Christmas spirits low. Perhaps the King had noticed it, for just before tea, a great commotion of stamping boots and calling orders echoed from the entrance hall, and the girls ran to see the hullabaloo. The King, dusted with snow and pine needles, arrived at the palace main doors tugging a great pine tree. The girls squealed with delight.
“Clover’s Christmas tree!”
“Huzzah!”
The girls joined hands in a reel and started to sing a nonsense Christmas song.
“It is not a Christmas tree!” said the King, so firmly that all the girls stopped jumping about. “This is a house of mourning. It is nothing more than a tree. I thought it would look nice. Inside. That is all.”
Puddles formed on the wood as the King began to set it up in the corner beneath the mezzanine, the girls hopping from foot to foot.
“Are we allowed to decorate this tree-that-is-not-a-Christmas-tree-that-is-just-meant-to-be-inside?” said Bramble.
The King took in Bramble’s red eyes and hollow-cheeked face and frowned.
“If you will pluck up, young lady,” he said. Then, as the twins brought the basket of yarn-stitched ornaments from the library, “Where is Miss Clover?”
Everyone looked about, surprised. Clover wasn’t with them.
“She’s probably helping Old Tom in the gardens again,” said Delphinium. “She’s been doing that a lot lately. Running off to the gardens.”
“More cider for us,” peeped Hollyhock, bringing a steaming mug of rewarmed cider from the kitchen. Azalea took a shawl and was out the door.
“I’ll fetch her,” she said.
Since it hadn’t snowed for several days, the garden paths had been cleared, and Azalea saw no footprints. So she searched for the likeliest places Clover would be: the stone benches in the overgrown topiaries, the stairs by the drained fountains. She kept an eye out for Old Tom’s wheelbarrow.
She had nearly given up when another sight gave her pause. In the far back part of the gardens, tethered to the gazebo, was a large white horse with a long, snowy mane. LadyFair, Fairweller’s horse!
The old garden gazebo was a sort of Eathesbury lovers’ landmark. They had been chided as children to leave it be and let the couples visiting the gardens have their time alone, but Azalea still remembered peeking with her sisters through the lattice, listening to gentlemen read poems or murmur sappy words of love.
It had been funny, then. Now, having some experience of love, Azalea didn’t see much humor in it.
Still…Fairweller…
Curiosity overriding her sensibilities, she pussyfooted over the path and crouched down beneath the bushes, just next to the splintery latticework. She peered up through the holes.
Only feet were visible, the rest blocked by the underside of the bench. Azalea recognized the immaculately shiny boots of Fairweller. The lady’s boots were hard and stiff, not unlike Azalea’s, which meant she was poor. That ruled out Lady Caversham, then. Azalea listened, patient.
“You trace your toe back,” came Fairweller’s voice, “touch your toes, step aside. Other foot steps back. Well done.”
He was teaching the lady a version of the waltz Azalea did not know. The lady’s shoes turned, graceful. She was good, even in boots. So was Fairweller. Azalea remembered how well he had danced at the Yuletide.
The lady said something, so quiet Azalea did not hear it.
“You are very good,” came Fairweller’s voice. “You are incomparable.”
The lady’s feet turned again, meaning Fairweller had brought her into an under-arm turn, spinning her. Her feet stepped just in front of Fairweller’s, and stopped. The lady laughed quietly, a light, pastry-sweet laugh, then—
Silence. Azalea drummed her fingers against the lattice, waiting for something to happen.
“I’ve spoken to Father Benedict.”
Fairweller’s voice was low and quiet. The lady’s feet stepped back.
“He says he is willing at any hour. We could leave tonight. On my ship. I’ll take you to Delchastire. The ballrooms there are so grand, they are fit for you—”
“No.”
The lady’s voice was firm, and the timbre of it made the hairs on the back of Azalea’s neck prickle.
“Oh, my lady. Your father would never approve. I know him too well.”
Azalea leaned in. Elopement…forbidden love…if Fairweller was caught courting a young lady without her father’s permission, he would end up in a duel. Azalea cringed.
“It is not the way a wedding ought to be done,” said the lady. “Weddings are meant to be with family. I will not allow it unless my sisters are there.”