Chapter Seventeen
The broom flower, referring to several species in the genus Genista, is a symbol of the Plantagenet dynasty and the source of its name by way of the Latin planta genista. In floriography, broom flowers mean humility.
And remember, when the herald calls your name, you will walk slowly down the processional, curtsy to the queen, and then exit stage right.
Leave only when Queen Viscaria dismisses you.
If she graces you with a question, you must answer, but remember to use the proper forms of address.
Do not speak unless spoken to. Understood? ”
Mrs. Rose counted off her commands on her fingertips. Their carriage rumbled along the cobblestones leading up to the Royal Palace, and Elswyth strained her neck to get a view through the window.
“Miss Elderwood, am I understood?” Mrs. Rose said.
Elswyth turned away from the window. “You’ve been telling me the same five things for nearly a week. I think I could present myself to the queen in my sleep. Besides, I should think that my reputation is already besmirched. I shan’t do much damage in the space of a single curtsy.”
“It’s a curtsy that could redeem you, Elswyth. It could mean the difference between a rich and handsome husband and an ugly, broke bastard. If the queen even hints at disapproval, the rest of society will shun you forever.”
Elswyth took on a mocking tone. “Oh no, Elswyth, don’t fret. You’ll do splendidly! I have the utmost faith in you.”
Mrs. Rose gave her a sour look. “Sarcasm isn’t befitting of a lady. Especially when one is not particularly good at it.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Despite Elswyth’s glibness, a steady sense of dread had been building since that morning.
She was already an outcast due to the disaster at Venus’s ball, and her presentation to the queen might be the only chance she had to return to good standing.
Frantic letters had poured in from her father after Mrs. Rose had informed him of what had happened, ceaselessly reminding her that the season was halfway through and she had no real prospects for marriage.
Mrs. Rose managed to keep him placated, but only just. And despite all their careful planning, Elswyth doubted that even a grand presentation would rescue her reputation.
The carriage lurched to a stop. Mrs. Rose nearly lost her fascinator and scrambled to put it back into place. She cursed and then knocked on the wood behind her. “My good man, we are running late!”
Of course, they were running at least an hour early, but Elswyth said nothing. Instead she pulled back the curtain and stuck her head once more out the window.
The palace loomed to her right. Palace seemed an inadequate word.
It was a jewel, a city within a city, with branches and wings all made of white stone and golden windows shining in the sunset light.
A high iron fence separated the street from the queen’s residence, and Scottish Guards punctuated each length of it like statues, standing stone-still.
The carriage pulled through the gate of the palace, leaving the clamor of the street behind.
After a few minutes of waiting, they stopped before the massive double doors at the head of the carriage circle.
A royal footman stood there, who opened the door and waited for Elswyth’s hand.
She took it, stepping out of the carriage and onto a sprawling red carpet.
Mrs. Rose followed her, the appropriate number of steps behind.
The palace seemed monumental to her, floor upon floor of columns and porticos and balustrades.
The carpet before her led up the steps and into the main hall, where debutantes waited anxiously, their mothers in tow.
She imagined her own mother there, by her side, and felt a wash of sadness.
Then she imagined Persephone being presented not a year before, and the sadness seemed to double.
Mrs. Rose stepped up behind her. “Onward and upward, Miss Elderwood. The queen waits for no man—or woman, I suppose.”
Elswyth entered the yawning mouth of the palace doors.
On either side of her, murals on the walls depicted the War of Three Roses: Queen Rowyn Elderwood’s floromancer knights in wooden armor faced Queen Aurelia Plantagenet’s soldiers with swords of steel.
It was fitting, she supposed. That war had almost ended House Elderwood and established the supremacy of the Plantagenet dynasty.
And now, centuries later, the last scion of the Elderwoods would present herself to their family’s ascendant rival.
She would prostrate herself at Queen Viscaria’s feet to be judged, with the fate of her bloodline hanging in the balance.
The stewards led them into a waiting room with the other debutantes, and immediately Elswyth was overwhelmed by color; they might as well have entered a greenhouse.
Each young lady was covered head to toe in flowers.
Those ladies with old blood sprouted flowers themselves, those unlucky enough to be born fallow merely pinned them to their gowns or wove them into their hair.
All around her, mothers fussed over their daughters’ costumes, putting the finishing touches on their elaborate floristry.
Mrs. Rose’s lessons did seem to have taken root in Elswyth.
The room before her was not just a sea of random faces but a collection of names and titles, and beyond that, a web of intricate social connections.
She saw Miss Calyptra Fairfield wearing a bouquet of pansies in her hair, Miss Phyllis Awn with a gown laced with violets, and Miss Nymphaea Barkley with a bustle covered in golden daisies.
Compared to the other debutantes, Elswyth’s gown must have seemed rather plain: an unplaceable white fabric embroidered with elderwood leaves along the corset.
The figure of the dress was slender, with no bustle or crinoline, and the gown left her shoulders bare.
Elswyth counted off the ladies in the room once more until she was sure she knew each one.
She had initially assumed that her sister’s killer was a man, but that was not necessarily so.
Venus Forscythe had shown her that women could be just as dangerous.
Elswyth suspected that the person responsible for Persephone’s disappearance was powerful, wealthy, and, above all, socially influential—and ladies, even more so than lords, dealt in influence.
But would one of these women have the influence needed to sway the police?
And if the person who murdered Persephone really was the Reaper, would any of these women have reason to hunt and kill prostitutes?
Would any of them have access to the floromancy necessary to create the mandrake?
She felt these disparate connections like a web, and yet she could not see the spider at its heart.
Elswyth joined the debutantes gathering near the double doors at the end of the room. Two ladies in front of her whispered to each other, distancing themselves. She saw the way their eyes ran along her scar, no longer hidden by powder.
Mrs. Rose was reminding her, once again, of the importance of a strong curtsy, when a voice said her name.
She turned to see Venus standing with her mother.
Venus looked radiant. She wore a gown of crimson chiffon with a heart-shaped bust and flaring skirt.
In her hair, she wore a coronet of orange blossoms. Likewise, she wore a long cloak woven from white Genista petals—both oranges and broom flowers were symbols of Queen Viscaria’s house.
Venus smiled, although her voice had carried a bitter edge. Lady Narcissa Forscythe looked elsewhere, refusing to acknowledge Elswyth.
Elswyth couldn’t help but scowl, but Mrs. Rose cleared her throat and Elswyth forced a polite smile. She’d been reminded, over and over, that she must remain civil. All around her, prying eyes lingered on their conversation.
She curtsied shallowly, inclining her head. “Miss Forscythe,” she said. She bowed more deeply as she turned to Venus’s mother. “Lady Forscythe.”
Venus turned to Mrs. Rose. Her lips twitched into a smile. “Is this your mother? Ever so pleased.”
“This is Mrs. Vivian Rose,” Elswyth said. “She is assisting me today.”
Miss Forscythe’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “I know you—the matchmaker. Well, there’s no shame in that, you know. We all must do what we must. I understand perfectly, given your circumstances. Why, without my mother, I’d be so lost. I can’t imagine. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
Lady Forscythe glanced at Elswyth and began fanning herself.
“Yes. Such a shame to be here alone. Every year, Queen Viscaria expects even more extravagant displays. Why, I’ve been attending the presentation for two decades now, and even I was at a loss.
Of course, Madame de Lis did beautifully with Venus’s gown.
But that can’t be said for everyone in attendance. ”
Lady Forscythe’s eyes lingered on Elswyth’s gown. Elswyth managed to keep her expression neutral.
“Oh, come now, Mother,” Miss Forscythe said, “I think it’s a wonderfully simple dress. No floromancy at all—probably best after the incident at my party, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but no telling what the queen will think of it. She does adore a show.”
Elswyth smiled thinly. She was about to excuse herself, but Mrs. Rose stepped in. “Certainly Venus’s gown will fascinate Her Majesty. The color is so bright, it simply cannot be missed.”
Venus’s smile faltered for a moment. In that split second, Elswyth had never been more grateful for Mrs. Rose.
Venus regained her composure. “If you do need anything, Miss Elderwood, do not hesitate to ask. We hold no ill will toward you after what happened at our party. We know that it can be so daunting to be a debutante without a mother… or even a sister. And we always strive to help the less fortunate. Even when we are wronged.” Venus turned to her mother, who nodded sympathetically.