“Oh—yes. Oh—no. Don’t. It’s nearly morning, and you’re dead on your feet. First thing tomorrow? We’ll find the King.”
“Oh—yes. Naturally—first thing. Of course.”
“Naturally.”
“Of course.”
“Wait…here.”
Mr. Bradford produced a small package from his suitcoat pocket and, going to her, unfolded a napkin from a crumbled muffin. They had eaten cardamom-egg muffins for tea, a great holiday treat. Azalea couldn’t bring herself to eat hers, so she had given it to Ivy. Ivy, in turn, had given it to Mr. Bradford, which meant that she was awfully fond of him. She never gave up food willingly. Mr. Bradford now offered it to Azalea in his large, cupped hands.
Azalea took it, blinking away almost-tears. She looked at him, his soft brown eyes and tall form, and contemplated raising herself on her toes and kissing his ear, or his cheek. In a great blush, she almost did—then pulled back, remembering that morning just a few days ago.
Instead, impulsively before leaving, she reached up and smoothed his mussed hair.
Mr. Bradford beamed.
Azalea awoke the next morning, late and to an empty room, but giddy and glorious, fully embued with Christmas spirit. She sang when she dressed, sang when she pinned up her hair, and daintily danced her way through the corridor and down the stairs. Every time she turned a corner, she added an extra spin, her skirts brushing the wallpaper.
After a quick, late breakfast of cinnamon bread and cream (holiday breakfast—Christmas Eve), Azalea learned from Mrs. Graybe that the girls were out giving Mr. Bradford a tour of the gardens before it snowed again. Azalea grinned, thinking of what sort of tour that would be. They would make him pull them across the frozen pond, and probably balance on the bridge railing, just to see if he could do it.
The King was out in the gardens, too, said Mrs. Graybe, discussing R.B. with a gentleman. Terribly impatient to find him and Mr. Bradford and get the whole business done with, Azalea donned a cloak and began to comb the bright, sunny-snow gardens.
It was nearly tea, the wind blowing in gusts and ushering in a storm, when Azalea found the King in the straw-smelling stable, saddling Dickens. Over Dickens’s back, in its rapier sheath, was the sword. Azalea remembered that the King had promised to have it mended today.
Next to Dickens stood an unfamiliar chestnut horse. Azalea recognized the owner. It was the rain cloud fellow—Mr. Gasperson. Azalea wondered what his business was, to be with the King on Christmas Eve. They spoke in low voices, and Azalea glimpsed a silver wax seal on a folded letter. The royal imprint.
“…as soon as Miss Bramble is willing, of course,” said the man in dark, rumbling tones. He mounted his horse.
“As you say.” The King looked up from Dickens’s side, seeing Azalea at the stable door. “Miss Azalea,” he said.
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Azalea. “I need to talk to you. I’m not interrupting?”
“No, it is quite all right.”
Intrigued, Azalea waited until the gentleman had ridden away, giving her a polite nod as he passed, before she pulled the creaking door closed. The King remained at Dickens’s side, buckling and harnessing and adjusting straps.
“Bramble?” said Azalea. “Willing? What did you give him?”
The King cinched the saddle. “It is going to snow,” he said. “You should head in.”
“Mrs. Graybe says you’ve been talking to him all morning,” said Azalea, stubbornly curious. She did not like how the King deflected her question.
“Azalea, did you have something to talk to me about?” said the King.
“Oh, yes,” said Azalea. She hesitated. “Tell me about Bramble first. Please. I’m supposed to watch out for the girls.”
An odd expression crossed the King’s bearded face. He considered Azalea, sizing her up. He paused.
“Well,” he said.
“Well?” said Azalea encouragingly.
The King gave a nod. From his suitcoat he produced a green broken-sealed letter. He handed it to Azalea.
“He has inundated me with letters this past week,” said the King. “Three a day at least. He’s even bought a town house on High Street. This is his most recent letter. Tell me what you make of it.”
Azalea eagerly unfolded the much-creased letter and read the hurried, loopy handwriting.
Your Most Exalted Majesty, Your Grace, etc., etc.:
I don’t know what ruddy else I can offer. You won’t have a fig to do with my lands or my money or anything, I suppose, of value to anyone else. I suppose that makes you a good father but it certainly makes things rum for me. I haven’t anything else to offer, but a sincere heart, one that aches for Bramble, her sweet, plucky spirit, her smart whippish mouth, her heart, and her dear hand.
“Her hand?” said Azalea.
I’m in agony now, hoping that my steward will convince you. If not I think I’ll break all the windows in the house and drown myself in a bucket.
A most sincere heart—
Lord Edward Albert Hemly Haftenravenscher, Esq.
Azalea stared at the letter.
“Marriage!” she said. “Lord Teddie wants to marry her! Marry Bramble!”
The King smiled. “Just so,” he said. He slipped the letter from Azalea’s hands. “He thinks her a run-a-hoop in a croquet game, raspberry jam on toast, cadmium red in a paint set. That is what he has written.”
“He’s around the twist,” said Azalea. “Breaking all the windows? He’s mad.”