Chapter Six
Kensington Park has been transformed into an enchanted garden. Dotting the lawn are floral displays as big as people, and baskets artfully arranged and overflowing with blooms. Gardeners have been hard at work on the eaves of the palace, giving the illusion that flowers are spilling from the roof and windows. Sparkling chandeliers hang from the branches of ancient trees, their crystals jingling in the gentle breeze.
Below the stone steps of the palace, in the middle of the festivities, is a maypole, a thin post about as tall as a streetlamp, topped with a rainbow of ribbons trailing down the side and fluttering in the wind.
Lords and ladies of London high society mingle in their tails and silks, draped in diamonds and wearing hats piled high with organza flowers. It’s a Pact Parade tradition, this garden party. The ton gather to drink champagne and wait for the girls of the season to emerge and show off their new bargains. It marks the official start of the season, the gunshot that signifies the beginning of the marriage hunt.
The crowd goes still and silent as we step outside. We shouldn’t all be appearing at once like this. There’s a ripple of shocked gasps as people spot the two dozen girls with blood smeared across the skirts of their white Pact Parade gowns.
“Welcome, on this most joyous day.”
The queen’s voice carries unnaturally through the crowd. “I’m pleased to announce that my son, Bram, Prince of Wales, intends to find a wife this season. Twenty-four girls have put themselves forward for consideration and, in their devotion, have vowed to never marry should they not be selected.”
The crowd gasps. Bram stands still beside Queen Mor, his face unreadable.
“As a mother, it is my dearest wish that my son end up with his perfect match, and I’m sure we can all agree that twenty-four girls is simply too many to become properly acquainted with over twelve weeks. Therefore, we will be whittling down our accomplished group of twenty-four to six.”
She lets the announcement settle, as if relishing our fear. Panicked glances go through the girls. Only six?
“Determination and grit are two vital qualities that any girl who marries my son will need to possess, and so, as is tradition in my homeland, the debutantes will compete in a maypole dance to prove their mettle. The final six left standing will be invited to move onto palace grounds and compete for Prince Bram’s hand. The rest will return home, your season ended.”
“You didn’t tell us that!”
Sara Middlebrook exclaims, her face screwed up in panic and anger.
Queen Mor levels her with a glance. “Why would I need to?”
She turns back to the crowd, her serene smile back in place. “In the spirit of sportsmanship, the winning girl will be gifted the May Queen tiara I won on my very own betrothal day.”
A footman steps forward holding an intricate floral tiara, set in a rainbow of gems, on a red velvet pillow.
“Shall we?”
The queen gestures for us to join her as she steps down onto the lawn and over to the maypole.
The crowd gathers around us in a wide circle. There’s a full bandstand off to one side, covered in white roses.
The queen turns to us with a final, sickly sweet smile. “Cheaters will be disqualified.”
The band kicks up an overly cheery tune, and I take a violet ribbon in my hand, Lydia’s favorite color. The pretty, dark-haired girl is directly in front of me, and Emmy Ito is at my heels.
We start skipping around the maypole, but the problem with the ground is evident almost immediately: a wet English winter has left the great lawn of Kensington Palace too soft.
The other girls’ silk slippers sink right into the sodden grass, and after only one rotation the maypole field has been turned to slick, wet mud.
Deidre falls first, only four turns in. One of her shoes gets stuck in the muck, and she turns around to fetch it, falling right into Greer, who hops over her deftly.
Deidre screams and pounds her fists until the footmen haul her away.
All I can do is watch, horrified, as the weight of what we’ve all agreed to settles over me. By sunset, eighteen girls will have lost everything they ever planned for. I can’t let myself be among them.
On and on we turn while the band plays. To keep from getting dizzy, I keep my eyes trained on the gables of the palace.
Onlookers gasp and cheer as we twirl, but I can’t help but feel that they’re just waiting to watch us fall like toy soldiers.
This is blood sport.
The rest of us last for the better part of an hour, but then one girl trips, and it’s chaos before anyone can register what’s happening. The debutante behind her topples, then another and another and another. The girl in front of me does a clever little spin out of the way, her arms out for flourish. The crowd explodes in applause.
But I’m coming up right behind her, Emmy at my heels, and she’s not slowing down. The blonde who’s just fallen can’t get up off the ground fast enough, and she stumbles again in the muck, right at my feet.
I dig the sturdy heels of my boots into the mud and stop on a dime, able to sidestep, then skip over her. I sigh in relief.
Another half hour, and my back is wet with sweat, my lungs screaming for air. On my insistence Mrs. Tuttle tied my corset loosely this morning, but no matter how I try, I can’t quite catch my breath.
With six girls down, there’s still eighteen of us, and all the bodies circling around me are stifling. With few exceptions, everyone else looks as tired as I feel. Our hair, once perfectly dressed, hangs in sweaty tendrils down our faces and necks.
One of the white roses Mrs. Tuttle pinned to my chignon this morning falls and is trampled to a sticky mess of petals in the dirt.
One of the girls I don’t know faints, and another falls on top of her.
Three more go not long after.
The crowd has regrouped around us; it’s getting rowdier, with fewer girls and more champagne. They’re shouting and passing money around. Most seem to be placing their bets on Sara Middlebrook and Marion Thorne.
I finally catch sight of my parents in the crowd. They’re off to the side, alone, ignored as usual. The sight sends a stab of anger through me, and my resolve is renewed.
I offer them a smile, but in my moment of distraction, another girl falls, splattering mud all over my dress.
I only have to outlast six more.
From the other side of the maypole Sara Middlebrook shouts over the band, “He’s never going to pick you, Ivy. A girl with your reputation, a princess? Spare us all the embarrassment and give up now.”
I offer her a fake smile. “I’ll take my chances.”
“I’ll let any girl who drops out right now be my lady-in-waiting when I win,”
she says to the group.
“Done.”
A redhead I don’t know drops her ribbon and walks off. A cry goes up from the crowd, her parents I assume.
Bram stands at the front of the crowd, his face sketched with concern. Did he know this is what his mother was planning?
Two more girls fall, one right on top of the other. The world is spinning so terribly, my focus going in and out, and for a moment I’m terrified I might go down with them, but the footmen pick them up in the nick of time.
We’re only nine now. I’m so close.
But my legs are shaking, my feet numb, even with the boots. There’s a stitch in my side, and it’s been ages since I fully caught my breath.
A tall brunette mutters something under her breath; I catch the word whore on the breeze. The girl behind her shoves her and they both go down screaming, the crowd screaming with them.
The party is a spinning blur, but in a single focused point is my mother, pale with worry. My father’s hand is protectively laid on her shoulder. I resent her sometimes for coddling Lydia and me. She was the kind of parent who could never stand to see either of us in discomfort, and although it made for a golden, happy childhood, I worry that it hasn’t prepared me for the world very well at all.
I only need to outlast one more girl, and I could save them from social alienation, from financial ruin, from all the pain I’ve borne witness to over the past three months.
I dig my heels deep into the mud as a shriek pierces through the crowd, and I look just in time to see Sara Middlebrook’s delicate slipper get caught in one of the fresh divots from my boots. She falls forward, the mud splashing all over her face.
“No!”
she screams. “No! It isn’t fair!”
She rushes to Bram and falls at his feet. “Please, Your Highness, pick me, pick me. I’ll do whatever you want.”
Bram helps her stand. “Mother?”
He looks over his shoulder to where the queen stands, her face expressionless. She nods her sharp chin at a footman, who carries Sara away, kicking and screaming.
I don’t like Sara, but I do feel pity for her. I wouldn’t wish her fate on anyone.
Despite it all, relief courses through my body. I’ve made it. I’m one of the final six. Marion Thorne falls next, though it happens a little too slowly and carefully to be an accident.
Olive gets tangled up in her ribbon and falls shortly after, immediately bursting into tears.
Emmy doesn’t last much longer.
With only three of us left—me, the dark-haired girl, and Greer—the crowd is in an absolute frenzy.
Greer’s face is wet with sweat, her eyes furious as they bore into mine.
Greer and I worked well as best friends because she always knew I was never going to be a threat to her. For years, it was always the same comments: Ivy doesn’t worry about being pretty, mustn’t that be nice? or It’s lovely that Ivy and I will come out the same season. She can help me manage my full dance card.
She’s staring at me now like I might actually give her a run for her money. For the first time in our lives, Greer Trummer is having to take me seriously.
“Thanks for lying for me at the atelier yesterday,”
I pant. “I’ll let you be one of my ladies-in-waiting.”
“Shut up,”
she hisses through gritted teeth. But in her distraction, her foot lands wrong and she falls, sputtering in the mud.
She curses, pounding her fist in the puddle before being dragged off.
I give myself only one turn around the pole to laugh.
The band slows as the musicians tire. We must have been dancing for over two hours.
The crowd is shouting, but I can hardly make it out over the pounding in my ears. “Ivy!”
That’s my father’s voice. “Go, Ivy!”
There’s another name being shouted. “Faith!”
That must be the name of the girl in front of me.
Faith’s cheeks are red with exertion, sweat dripping from her hairline down into the collar of her white dress.
But her face is stony, giving nothing away. I respect her for it.
I’m so tired. It would be easy to stop. But the sun catches the jewels in the May Queen tiara, and I picture giving it to my parents. They could sell it for more money than we’ve seen my entire life. It might save our house. It might even be enough for Lydia and me to live on without husbands.
I turn with renewed energy, my feet pounding into the mud.
Two little girls burst through to the front of crowd. “Faith!”
they shout. “Go, Faith!”
She spots them and smiles, her perfect face finally cracking.
In her distraction, her left foot lands a little sideways in a crater of mud and she trips. She tries to hold on to her ribbon, but it rips. The crowd gasps, and Faith falls to the ground, splattered in mud.
There is stunned silence, and then comes a burst of riotous applause.
The crowd parts, and the queen and Bram walk toward us. Ever the gentleman, Bram helps Faith to her feet, but his eyes are on me.
The May Queen crown glints in the sun as the queen raises it high, so that everyone gathered can see it, then lowers it onto my head.
The crowd is cheering, there’s a shower of flower petals raining down on me like snow, but my gaze lands on a single figure in the crowd.
His eyebrows are furrowed, his mouth screwed up in a scowl, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists. Standing completely still, staring at me like he absolutely loathes me, is Prince Emmett De Vere.