The Rose Bargain

Chapter Nine

Mama drags Lydia out of bed the next morning to say goodbye, and we share an awkward brief hug at the door. We’re all elbows as we knock into each other. Her eyes are still swollen with sleep, but I don’t know if that’s the reason she can’t really look at me. We can’t bear how much we love each other. It’s like an open wound we can’t touch for all the stinging it causes.

“I’m going to miss you so much,”

I whisper, so quiet only she can hear.

“He’ll fall in love with you if he has any taste at all,”

she whispers back.

Mrs. Tuttle kisses me twice on both cheeks and says, “When you’re a princess, you’d better let your old Mrs. Tuttle visit you in that fancy palace of yours.”

Papa hugs me last, his eyes wet with tears. “When did you grow up?”

he asks into my hair.

He has to know as well as I do. But I just hug him back. At my feet is a bag of books he’s given me, old volumes of Socrates and John Locke. I don’t want to haul them across town with me, but as usual, I indulge him.

The carriage pulls away from Belgrave Square, and I watch my home disappear behind me in a cloud of dust.

When we reach Kensington Palace, there’s a fearsome woman standing on the steps, waiting for us. “You’re the last to arrive,”

she says curtly as the footmen haul my single trunk out of the back of the carriage.

Mama glances at the watch chain pinned to her waistband. “But we’re right on time.”

“Lady Marion Thorne has been here with her parents and lady’s maid since first light,”

she replies. “The rest arrived after breakfast.”

I’m embarrassed that the other girls arrived early to get ready together. Did they talk about it without me?

Without waiting for a response, she marches with the posture of a military commander across the lawn as Mama and I skitter after her. England hasn’t had a military since Queen Mor put an end to the War of the Roses, but I’ve read about it in books. Nothing described in the pages of novels was quite as fearsome as the lady before me. She’s in her sixties, with white hair swept up into a bouffant and a serious gray spencer jacket buttoned over her gown.

“I’m Viscountess Bolingbroke, and I will be your chaperone for the season. I promise to guide you all, educate you to the best of my abilities, and ensure that your honor remains firmly intact. I’ll reside with you and the five other girls here on palace grounds. I expect your behavior to be unimpeachable.”

She looks down at my embarrassingly small valise. “I’m glad to see you packed light. A trousseau of all required items will be provided to you by the Crown.”

She leads us to Caledonia Cottage, a squat little building, crawling with ivy, perched on the wooded edge of the palace grounds. We step through the threshold from the quiet garden to a storm of activity as the other girls and their staff prepare for the ball tonight. Viscountess Bolingbroke takes us up the carpeted staircase to what will be my room. It’s fashionably decorated, but smaller than my room at home, with a slanting ceiling and a single window letting in streams of golden midmorning light.

Two beds with matching pale-blue silk damask canopies are placed against the far wall, the one closest to the window already rumpled and covered with discarded clothing.

“You’ll be with Faith Fairchild,”

the viscountess says. “I will be staying down the hall for the remainder of the season, and you will be attended to by a full staff of palace professionals. Family visits can be arranged with me directly, but we discourage visiting too often lest it interfere with the girls’ focus.”

The viscountess swishes out the door, and I bid my mother a brief goodbye. She’s never been one for tears; she just squeezes me and says, “Do your best.”

A luncheon has been laid out in the dining room downstairs, a getting-to-know-you meal for me and the other girls. We don’t have long to sit, though. As tradition demands, there will be a ball tonight at the home of the Twombleys, where everyone will show off their new faces and talents and whatever else people can think to bargain for. A few years back, there was a girl who bargained for a strange little clock that meowed like a cat on the hour. Still, no one knows why.

When I was eleven or twelve, at the height of my faerie obsession, I stole one of my mother’s unused journals and listed every single bargain and cost I could find, desperate to identify some rhyme or reason to them. I came to the conclusion that they’re random, completely reliant on the queen’s whims, which terrified and thrilled me all at once.

The Benton household received our invitation from Count Twombley’s footman at first light this morning. My mother pulled me into a tight hug, her eyes wet with tears upon tearing open the invitation’s wax seal. It would never have arrived had I not been one of the prince’s suitors.

Greer sits at the end of the table, the difference in her immediately obvious.

Her face, once ruddy and sweet, has been sharpened and thinned into something strikingly beautiful. I can’t look at her, it’s too uncanny and unsettling.

Olive, too, appears changed. She strides in and smiles widely, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth. She’d been missing an upper molar before, and the bottom row had been a mess of overlapping.

Emmy, Marion, and Faith remain outwardly unchanged.

“Greer, you look beautiful,”

Marion says, kindly. “You too, Olive.”

Olive, who hasn’t stopped smiling since she entered, nods in acknowledgment.

Finger sandwiches are passed around and tea is poured. “So what did everyone else receive yesterday?”

Marion asks, carrying the conversation as if she already knows she’s the leader.

“More important, what did everyone give up?”

Emmy says under her breath.

Olive tugs off her wrist-length white gloves. A fresh bandage is wrapped around the palm of her hand, identical to the one all six of us wear.

She extends her arms to the center of the table and wiggles ten perfectly smooth fingernail-less fingers.

Emmy gasps. Faith is stunned into silence. Greer shrieks. Marion just laughs.

“It was worth it, though, right?”

Olive says. Her mouth cracks into an uneasy smile around her flawless teeth.

“Absolutely!”

I exclaim, hopefully stopping Emmy from saying whatever negative remark looks to be on the tip of her tongue.

“What about you, Greer? What did it cost?”

Olive asks.

Greer laughs, the same back-of-the-throat, snorting laugh she’s had since we were children. She stands up, pushing her chair into the shiny mahogany table.

“Look at this,”

she says, but there’s a hysterical edge to her voice, like she can’t quite believe what is happening.

She closes her eyes in concentration but stays completely still. Then she relents with a sigh and walks in a wide circle around the table.

“I don’t understand,”

Marion says.

“I can’t turn left,”

Greer says.

“Ever?” I ask.

“Nope, never again.”

Marion snorts back a laugh. “And you agreed to that?”

Greer shrugs. “It’s what she offered, and it seemed less painful than losing toes, so . . .”

At that, all six of us dissolve into violent giggles, even quiet Faith, who slaps her hand down on the table so hard tea spills all over the scones.

“What about you, Marion?”

Greer asks once she’s seated again.

Marion takes a sip of her tea and waves her hand in dismissal. “I’ve been plagued with migraines all my life, so I asked to experience no more headaches.”

Olive thumbs over the tips of her smooth fingers. “What’d she ask for in return?”

Marion shrugs, her diamond earrings swaying. “I can no longer smell flowers. No great loss.”

We all mutter in agreement and turn to Emmy, awaiting her confession.

Emmy purses her lips. “I asked for painting talent. I’ll never again be able to taste sweets. I never particularly liked sweets, but I didn’t tell her that.”

“And you, Faith?”

Marion gestures to where Faith sits at her right. Faith has a cucumber sandwich pinched between her fingers, but she sits, completely frozen, staring oddly at Marion, something strangely charged between them.

“With all due respect, I don’t see how telling this to any of you would help me,”

Faith says under her breath.

Everyone tenses. We know we’re each other’s competition. It’s only Faith who seems honest, or brave, or cruel enough to say the truth aloud. “You’re all just obstacles directly in the way of my happiness,”

she continues. “The sooner this is over, the better.”

Faith pushes back from the table and stomps out of the room.

Olive sniffles, suddenly teary-eyed. “I was hoping we’d all be friends.”

“We will be,”

Marion reassures her, but Emmy and Greer shift awkwardly.

Everyone turns to me, waiting.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

There’s no benefit in lying to them. “I couldn’t think of anything I wanted enough to bargain for it, so I didn’t make one.”

“You . . . didn’t make one?”

Greer asks.

“Nope.”

Before anyone can question me further, Viscountess Bolingbroke appears in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “Up, girls, up! You must make haste!”

We abandon our plates and bound up the stairs to our bedrooms. At the foot of my bed I find a black leather trunk embossed with my initials, IEB, in gold, and overflowing with clothes. There’s a rainbow of dresses: gowns made of silk so fine it nearly glows, smart cotton visiting dresses, even a velvet riding coat. Beneath that is a layer of new drawers, chemises lined with lace, and gloves made of kidskin and satin.

I peer over at Faith. Girls can debut in front of the queen and take part in the Pact Parade only if their own mothers had done it or if an older woman, usually a relative, sponsors their participation.

Last night, my mother was excited to tell me all the new gossip she learned at the garden party. Faith grew up in Brighton, and her alleged godmother, Lady Carrington, sponsored her coming-out. Mama recounted in perfect detail that Faith had been, up until recently, a ballerina in the Royal Ballet, hardly an acceptable position for a high society girl. Faith is rumored to be the bastard child of Lord Carrington. His mother, Lady Carrington, isn’t Faith’s godmother, but her grandmother. But that’s not the only rumor about Faith Fairchild.

The silence between us is awkward. “You grew up in the country, right?”

I ask her.

Faith levels me with a venomous glare. “Are you seriously stupid enough to think we’re going to be friends?”

I have absolutely no idea how to respond.

“Stay out of my way, and I’ll leave you be. Get in my way, and you’ll regret it.”

I salute. “Got it, boss.”

She glares again.

If anything, I’m relieved to be sharing a room with someone who doesn’t feel the need to pretend we’re all going to be bosom friends at the end of this.

A flurry of lady’s maids arrives soon after to ready us all for the ball. We’re prepped and preened with curling tongs and perfume oils and rouge for our lips, like we’re dressing for battle.

Shiny black carriages embossed with the queen’s seal pull up after eight p.m., and we pile in, two to a carriage, our skirts too wide to allow for more.

My lady’s maid must have tied at least six petticoats around my waist, and I know I’ll be sore before midnight from carrying around the extra weight.

Faith stares out the window, her chin in her hand, as the mansions of Chelsea pass by in a blur. She’s in a cornflower blue gown, exactly the same shade as her eyes, with matching topaz earrings and necklace, both from the royal vault.

My carnation-pink gown is an off-the-shoulder confection, with intricate pleating and floral embroidery up the skirt.

Settled on my collarbones is a weighty diamond necklace from the queen’s private collection, brought to our room by a lady-in-waiting who said to consider it a token of the queen’s best wishes as Prince Bram’s suitors began their season. My May Queen crown glinted at my bedside, and my lady’s maid had gestured to it in an offer to pin it to my curls. “No, no,”

I insisted, the idea of drawing any more attention to myself after yesterday’s fanfare made me sick to my stomach.

Our carriage slows as we approach the Twombleys’ manor, which is lit up with dozens of torches glowing against the night.

There’s an orchestra on the open second-floor landing, and the dancing inside the palatial house is in full swing by the time we enter.

At the door, we’re each handed dance cards, delicate little pamphlets with a tiny pencil attached with a ribbon.

Like a mother duck, Viscountess Bolingbroke corrals us, snatching the dance cards out of our hands one by one.

“Remember, ladies, you are not here to court. You will not accept any offers to dance, you should always be in the company of other ladies, and under no circumstances should you disappear from my view. Anything less than impeccable behavior could result in your removal from consideration for the prince’s hand.”

We all nod in understanding, but Olive is already swiveling her head, looking at the party, and Emmy has somehow procured herself a glass of champagne. I fear the viscountess may have her work cut out for her.

“The prince will be here tonight,”

she says. “This is your first opportunity to make a real impression on His Majesty. I suggest you don’t waste it.”

A hush falls over the crowd as the six of us enter, everyone craning their necks to get a look at us. Our names and faces were splashed over every paper in London this morning. From the dukes and duchesses in this room to the mud larks along the Thames, Queen Mor’s announcement that this is the season her son will take a bride is all anyone can talk about. My May Queen victory was particularly noted. Whispers follow me as we cut across the room. There goes Ivy Benton. Who knew she had it in her? He’s still never going to pick her.

I spot my mother, surrounded by laughing women in the corner of the room, the widest smile on her face I’ve seen in months.

The chandelier reflects off the small tiara nestled in her curls. The stones are paste. We sold the real ones off a decade ago.

It seems my status as one of the prince’s suitors has granted my mother immediate acceptance back into her old social group. The familiar rage at the fact that we could all be discarded, then reaccepted like it was all nothing, rises in me, but I brush it away. This is only a game, and the sooner I accept that, the easier the next few months will be.

At that moment, a trumpet sounds, the band lowers their strings, and the ballroom stills.

Prince Bram enters the room, flanked by Prince Emmett, both nearly a head above everyone else in the crowd. They wear matching black coats embellished with sky-blue sashes and badges of the eight-pointed star, the order of the royal family. Their high white cravats are flawless, their shoes perfectly shined. Emmett and Bram aren’t biological brothers of course, but they do resemble each other. Prince Emmett’s hair is a few shades darker, his cheekbones higher, his lips fuller. Their expressions are different, too—Bram’s lips upturned in a wide, friendly smile, and Emmett’s turned down in a bored frown. Together, they’re a complete set, Bram the sun, Emmett the moon.

The attention of every girl in the room is divided between them. It’s been a point of discussion among all of us for years, in hushed tones when our mothers weren’t listening: Are you a Bram girl or an Emmett girl? Bram, sunny, kind, and safe, tends to appeal to girls who share similar qualities. It’s Emmett, with his bitten lips and sad eyes, who plays in the fantasies of the risk-takers. I always thought the conversations were silly, but here, hit with the force of the princes’ presence, I’m starting to understand.

Prince Emmett lingers at the edge of the crowd while Bram strides to the center of the now-empty dance floor.

“I’d like to thank our gracious hosts, the Count and Countess Twombley, for so generously facilitating tonight’s festivities.”

He gestures to where they stand, and they bow humbly.

“And I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the six beautiful, accomplished young ladies whom I will have the pleasure of getting to know this season.”

He gestures for us to join him in the center of the room.

Marion curtsies, and it seems the right thing, so the rest of us do it too, and suddenly the whole room is clapping and Prince Bram is smiling as he says, “I look forward to our time together, and to making one of you my wife.”

Every person in this ballroom is staring at us, some with pity, some with jealousy, some with judgment, like there’s already a betting pool for which of us will take the prize. At one of the seedier gentleman’s clubs, there probably is. I wonder what my odds are. Yesterday’s competition took so much out of me, I didn’t have time to consider what this would feel like. But now, dressed up and on display, I feel desperately out of my depth.

The music strikes up again, and Bram extends his hand to Marion for a dance. She’s the closest to him, so it could be nothing but convenience, but it smarts nonetheless. I watch as Olive’s face crumbles into devastation, while Greer looks confused. Only Emmy’s and Faith’s faces remain as unreadable as ever.

A quadrille kicks up, and soon the ballroom is a swirling confection of silks and chiffon.

My mother has disappeared to gossip somewhere with her friends, and my father is off smoking cigars with the men. I feel a swell of pride that I gave them this acceptance. But the room is stifling with so many bodies, and I can hardly stand to watch Greer try to soothe Olive, who is now fully in tears. I don’t miss it when Greer rotates their bodies just slightly so that Olive’s tear-streaked face is in the eyeline of Prince Bram.

I scan the ballroom, looking for the other girls from yesterday, the ones who didn’t make the top six, but they’re nowhere to be found. I wonder if they were uninvited, or if the disappointment was too much to bear publicly.

Fiona Devon and Althea Jones sidle up to me. I would have called us friends once, before they ignored me pointedly for months. Neither presented themselves as Bram’s suitors, so they’ll have a typical season of husband hunting. “Hi, darling,”

Althea trills. “What did you bargain for?”

She cuts right to the chase, no pretense of politeness or apology.

“You first.”

I smile sweetly. That is the point of tonight’s ball, after all, to spread the news of every girl’s new bargain. It always seemed unfair to me that the boys can make their bargains whenever they want, though plenty of them will this season, clever little business bargains that ensure their inheritance, shore up their estates, or expand their already impressive wealth.

Althea, like a lot of girls in this room, clearly bargained to become more beautiful. She blinks her now-thick eyelashes. “Oh, just a little tune-up here.”

She gestures at her flawless skin. “My hands and feet will be cold forever, but it’s really not so bad. These grand houses are always so drafty anyway.”

She elbows Fiona, the quieter of the two, in the ribs. “Fiona’s is hilarious. Tell her, Fee.”

Fiona laughs shyly. “Her Majesty improved my singing voice, but now I’ll forever vomit at the sight of frogs.”

“After four hundred years, I think she must be running out of ideas,”

Fiona adds. “And what about you?”

“I didn’t make one.”

“Didn’t make one?”

Fiona repeats in confusion.

“I’m sorry . . . if you’ll excuse me.”

I turn and skirt along the edge of the wall, wondering if I can sneak out to the garden for a moment of silence, to compose myself. My whole life, whenever I felt confused, I’d think to myself, What would Lydia do? Or whenever that failed, What would Greer do? But Lydia would be hiding, and Greer is in the corner with Emmy, laughing over a champagne tower, so I’m completely without a North Star.

I’m walking toward the open doors to the veranda when Viscountess Bolingbroke pops up in front of me like a banshee.

“Just where are you going?”

she demands.

“Privy,”

I answer, and redirect my steps.

It’ll be less welcome than the fresh air of the garden, but as a moment alone goes, it’s better than nothing.

She nods and looks down at the watch pinned to her waistband. “You have five minutes. His Majesty will expect to dance with all his girls tonight.”

The sounds of the ballroom are muffled in the carpeted hallway. I’m grateful for the silence, a moment to breathe.

I’m nearly to the end of the hall when a hand juts out of a room, snakes around my waist, and yanks me backward.

I fall into a body, tripping on my heavy skirts. Whoever has hold of me is strong enough to keep us both from falling.

The door slams, and I wheel around in terror to face my attacker, fists up.

It takes me a moment to get my bearings. The bedroom I’ve been pulled into is lit only by a small, flickering candle.

“Your Highness?” I gasp.