Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
DAPHNE
O n Saturday, I arrive at a popular park on the outskirts of town. The vast grassy field is edged with trees before a picturesque backdrop of rolling hills and towering mountains, which makes it an attractive destination for picnicking couples. Today, however, the verdant field has been transformed into something else. Colorful tents have been erected across the lawn. Scents of food stalls and strains of music fill the air.
I hover outside the park’s entrance, shoulders hunched, as I watch guests filter onto the grounds. My pulse rackets at the sight of so many people. The sounds. The scents. Monty’s letter had informed me that our experiment would take place at the park and that the park would play host to a carnival all weekend, but I can only prepare myself so far. Experiencing a social event is always far more overwhelming than I expect.
At least the spring weather is mild, despite the sun shining high overhead. A gentle breeze carries fresh mountain air while fluffy white clouds offer abundant shade. That’s one consolation to make up for the sweat that prickles my brow, courtesy of my growing anxiety.
I nibble my bottom lip and shift my feet. Do I look strange standing here alone? Is there a better place to wait for Monty? I keep my eyes on the ground, not wanting to stare at everyone who walks past, yet unsure how else I’ll know when Monty arrives?—
“You wore a dress.” I latch onto the sound of his voice, lifting my gaze to find him strolling toward me from the long line of coach traffic on the street. He’s dressed in a full suit today, his hands adorned in gloves. His cravat is only loosely tied, but I suppose he wouldn’t be Monty if some part of his attire wasn’t askew. His pale hair is as roguish and dashing as ever with its messy waves.
My nerves settle with every step he draws closer to me. “Of course I wore a dress. It was your idea, wasn’t it? You said to wear the finest day dress I own with fashionable shoes and lace gloves, so I have.”
I flick my gloved wrist toward my ensemble. Since I rarely go out aside from work, most of my wardrobe consists of comfortable slacks, billowy blouses, form-fitting waistcoats, and the occasional skirt. Though I do have a dress or two, including the pink day dress I’m wearing now. It’s on the plain side, merely linen and lace with pearl buttons down the sleeves and back, but it’s appropriate for today’s mostly human crowd. I still don’t fully grasp human fashion, and my tastes tend to be either too comfortable or too bold with nothing in between. Hence my one purposefully in-between dress.
“I don’t recall agreeing to take fashion advice from you in our bargain,” I say.
He stops before me, lips quirked in a sideways smile. “Yet you obeyed my every suggestion. Such a good girl.”
My stomach takes an unexpected tumble at his teasing praise.
“Count fashion as part of our case study from now on,” he says, then holds out his elbow. “You know how to properly walk with a man in public, do you not, Daffy Dear?”
I glower at him but place my hand in the crook of his arm. “It may shock you to hear this, but I once studied etiquette. So, yes, I know how to walk with a man. Though one would think simply walking wouldn’t require so much forethought.”
“Yes, well, walking is never just walking in human society. Especially not for a lady seeking courtship.”
“Right,” I say with a sigh as Monty guides me into the fray of guests and onto the park grounds. I tense as the bodies around us grow denser and the scents and music grow stronger.
“When did you study etiquette?” Monty asks. It’s not a question I want to answer, but at least it distracts me from the sea of stimuli assaulting me. His voice is like a tether to calm, the focal point in a chaotic painting. Something to let my attention rest on in a sea of clashing colors.
“I, uh, attempted to debut in high society ten years ago. It didn’t go well.”
Monty stares down at me with a furrowed brow, and I can tell he wants to know more.
Before he can ask, I say, “What did you do last night? It was Friday, so did you fight at the club? You didn’t damage my merchandise again, did you?” I say the last part with a poke to his arm.
He rolls his eyes. “I fought. I lost. Your merchandise is a little worse for wear, but I doubt that will get in the way of our next modeling session.”
“Our next session is in color. How can I accurately depict Alexander’s skin tone if you’re covered in purple splotches? Is that perhaps the real reason you’re dressed so nicely, gloves and all?”
“I lost in the first round, so damage was minimal.”
I notice he avoided answering my question in full, but as we reach the first carnival attraction, my attention shifts from him to our surroundings—my new focal point in this cacophony. Outside a brightly colored tent stands a towering fae, their skin made of rough bark, their fingers twining branches. Their face is merely a collection of vines that form a lipless mouth and sockets filled with glossy black eyes. Their hair is a mass of moss and leaves.
“Step inside and witness the marvels of fate,” the fae says. “Mistress Maythorn can read the lines on your palm as if they were words in a book. Will you be lucky in love? Make a magnitude of money?”
I tighten my grip on Monty’s arm, worried the tree fae might scoop me up and usher me inside the tent against my will, but they do no such thing, they only call out to the next cluster of guests. As we proceed, I notice several more tree fae up ahead, either standing outside tents or pushing confection carts. Some are tall and very much treelike as the first fae was, while others are slender and youthful with humanoid bodies and leafy hair. Others are somewhere in between with ancient visages of weathered bark but still somewhat humanoid.
My anxiety fizzles away, shifting into fascination. I glance at Monty. “It’s a dryad carnival?”
“Indeed it is. The Wandering Trees Carnival is a famous attraction, and a blessing to any court it travels through. This park and the surrounding vegetation will be lusher than ever after this weekend.”
I daresay he’s right. Dryads are tree spirits and are known for encouraging the growth and health of plant life. According to my landlady, my apartment’s former tenant was a dryad, which explains the tree growing in the middle of my parlor.
“I’ve never been to a carnival,” I say, “much less a dryad one.”
“I thought you’d like it, despite the noise and crowds.” He turns a dimpled grin my way. “Even if we fail to introduce you to any romantic prospects, we could at least have fun.”
My stomach takes another strange tumble. I didn’t expect him to have anything other than his case study in mind when he chose the first location for our lesson. Does he mean to say he chose the carnival for entertainment purposes too? Entertainment to enjoy with me?
“Socializing may be the first courtship principle I present in my book,” Monty says, “but meeting one’s future partner isn’t something I can help my readers with. Even when I play matchmaker, I don’t set up strangers. I merely notice a spark between two people that they don’t notice themselves.”
“You’re not a matchmaker at all, then,” I say with a wry grin. “You’re more of a…match-noticer? Spark-finder?”
He gives a good-natured roll of his eyes. “Call it whatever you want. The point is you can’t force the spark. Sometimes it can grow from nothing, but you still must test and observe before you can nurture it.”
“So that’s what we’ll be doing today? Mingling with others and seeing if you notice a spark between me and anyone?” I’m reminded of the plan I made with Araminta. We orchestrated a meeting with David’s friends; we didn’t assess compatibility or this so-called spark.
“No, Daph. The purpose of this principle is to teach my readers to socialize for the sake of joy, not romance. Romance is the goal, yes, but it can’t be forced. Socializing is the key to meeting prospective mates, but enjoying it is what makes the process less miserable.”
I frown at him. “I feel like I’ve been tricked. You brought me here not to try and meet prospective partners but to…have fun?” On one hand, that’s such a relief. No pressure. No need to force myself to talk to strangers or cultivate a relationship I only want for logical purposes. On the other hand, I don’t have an abundance of time to secure a husband. Not if I want guaranteed freedom from the handfasting I’m desperate to get out of.
“Yes, because you represent many of my readers,” Monty says. “Working class women who don’t utilize the societal freedoms they have, yet wonder how they’re supposed to find love. In many ways, they have more freedom than the upper class. They aren’t relegated to their family’s parlor, waiting for visitors to call upon them, only going out for extravagant social functions or careful outings with a chaperone. That, of course, makes it both more and less difficult to meet a prospective partner. With more social and sexual freedom comes more ambiguity. It isn’t always clear whether a suitor has courtship, marriage, or sex in mind, because these topics remain taboo to speak so directly about. Which is where I come in. I know the signs that set a gentleman apart from a rake. But meeting said gentleman or rake is up to chance or destiny or…who knows. It can take time. Which is why it’s important to simply enjoy yourself.”
With a grumble, I cast my gaze around the colorful tents and stalls. Despite the ever-rising noise and bustle of guests around us, my nerves have settled to a steady hum in my gut, a mild hitch in my lungs. Probably thanks to Monty’s familiar presence. Maybe he’s right about enjoying myself. This could be fun, like the boxing club ended up being. Maybe I’ve missed out on similar enjoyment simply out of fear.
“I suppose I can have fun,” I mutter.
Monty chuckles and gives the hand I have nestled in the crook of his elbow a consoling pat. “I assure you, socializing for the sake of fun is not as terrible as you think. Besides, there’s still a chance you’ll meet someone you like today. We’ll have plenty of opportunities to mingle with prospective partners.”
Just like that, my comfort unravels and anxiety takes its place, writhing like a nest of snakes in my belly. But I have a solution for that. “Do you think there’s a carousel?” I say in a rush. “I absolutely must find the carousel.”
Monty’s eyes narrow the slightest bit, but he escorts me through the crowds until tinny mechanical music reaches my ears, along with the sight of a rotating circular platform set with dozens of intricately carved fae creatures—dragons, puca, kitsune, selkies—painted in pastel colors. The creatures serve as seats for the ride’s occupants, bobbing up and down as the platform turns. Mirrors and faceted jewels decorate everything from the central pillar to the pitched roof, making the whole ride glitter beneath the afternoon sunlight. One of the towering types of dryads works a large crank that operates the ride. Off to the side, I glimpse a figure adorned in a plenitude of black ruffles, easy to spot amongst the neutral tones worn by the carnival guests or the bright hues of the rides and tents.
I release a feigned gasp. “Isn’t that…Araminta? Oh, let us pay our respects.” I make a beeline for her, tugging Monty along with me.
My tall, lilac-haired friend bounces on the balls of her feet as she waves profusely. This is the second time I’m seeing her in seelie form, and she has on an entirely different mourning ensemble. I’d like to ask which deceased widow she stole from this time, but I’ve already rehearsed what I say next.
“Araminta, how lovely to see you.”
“And I you, my dearest best friend,” she replies, her tone a tad too benevolent. “Coincidences are such a funny thing, are they not?”
“Funny indeed. Oh, but I see you are with company.” I glance briefly at the two human males behind her. One I recognize as David from the boxing club while the other looks to be his same age with dark hair and thick lashes. Both are dressed more casually than Monty—slacks, suspenders, open waistcoats, and tweed caps—and neither appears aware of our ruse. I’m quite relieved to find only one friend with them after all.
“I am with company,” Araminta says, “but I would be honored if the two of you would join us. I would love to introduce you. Particularly to David’s unattached friend.” She gives me a rather inconspicuous wink.
I turn an innocent smile to Monty. “What luck! A male has appeared in the wild and he seems unmarried. Shall we use him for our lesson?”
He faces me fully and speaks in a whisper. “What are you doing? Did you plan this?”
“Maybe I did.”
“We’re not ready for introductions,” he says, pulling me a few steps away from the trio. “There are other topics we need to discuss first.”
“Like what?”
“Like…is he even your type? Are you comfortable with his age? He can’t be more than two-and-twenty.”
I scoff. “You speak like you’re so much older than him. What are you, five-and-twenty?”
“Eight-and-twenty.”
“You’re practically the same age when I’m three centuries older.”
“Still…” He glances at Araminta and the two men, a tic pulsing at the corners of his jaw. Why is he so flustered? Surely this is what he wanted. He lives for matchmaking. He should be pleased we’ve found a potential specimen to assess my possible spark with so soon. “Lesson One was supposed to demonstrate socializing for the sake of fun and that meeting a lover can take time. Instead, you staged a setup.”
I arch a brow. “If meeting a mate can take so much time, how were you ever planning on finishing your case study before our bargain expires? You know I need a husband before Lughnasadh.”
“I would have introduced you to people I’ve personally vetted.” Monty’s eyes dart briefly at the unnamed man beside David, his expression darkening. “ He is not who I had in mind for you. I would have selected someone better than your…your wicked little co-conspirator has chosen.”
Wait.
Could it be…
Is he jealous that Araminta stole his role as matchmaker?
There’s something satisfying about the prospect of making him jealous. Not that he’s jealous over me , only his favorite hobby.
“Does this not still suit Lesson One?” I say. “I never would have agreed to meet Araminta were it not for this specific lesson. Your readers could relate and find encouragement in what I’m doing. Isn’t saying yes to outings with friends essential to socializing for the sake of fun? It’s not like you need to mention in your book that this meeting was contrived for courtship practice.”
He heaves a ragged sigh. “I suppose, but?—”
“You wanted to coach me, right?” I hold his gaze and infuse my tone with a hint of taunting. “So coach me. We can move on to your next principle. I’ll demonstrate as many as you see fit.”
His eyes narrow, that tic still pulsing at his jaw. Cursing under his breath, he breaks my gaze. “Fine. But remember, this still only counts as one lesson where our bargain is concerned. Each of our lessons or sessions lasts for as long as a day, so you won’t get more modeling from me by coercing me into teaching you more than one principle at a time.”
“Understood.” I purse my lips to hide the satisfied grin that tugs at them. “What’s our next lesson, teacher?”