Chapter 2 It’s the Gifts
Agatha
I’m busy doing my daily ankle-slimming regimen—Father insists, and obviously I’m not going to tell him I think it’s an absurd waste of time—when there’s a sudden scrabbling at my bedroom door.
It’s followed by Phildan and Pudan, my two half-brothers, who burst into my room and nearly bowl me over with embraces.
“Happy birthday, Agatha!” Their squeaky voices are a bit too loud in the early morning, but my Gift of Poise—another of Melusine’s unique concoctions, and one of her best, in my opinion—keeps a smile on my face.
Phildan, the older, stretches onto his tiptoes to crown me with a little wreath of twisted ivy and forget-me-nots, while Pudan wraps his arms around my waist and looks at me with his most adoring eyes. “You look so pretty.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the dull wall mirror. My hair is down, golden waves bouncing on my shoulders, and flickering lamplight fights the morning haze and casts an ethereal sort of glow around me. I do look very pretty.
“Thank you.” I run a hand through Pudan’s tangled brown hair and cast a glance toward Phildan, hoping he’s also brought a pot of tea, but of course I shouldn’t expect children to think of such things. “Sit down, and I’ll comb your hair for you before I go meet Melusine.”
Pudan doesn’t grumble, though I do wonder how Stepmother will manage to keep his hair in order once I’m married. She can’t get the boys to do anything.
But I shouldn’t criticize Stepmother. She simply doesn’t have the Gifts; that’s not her fault.
“Are you getting married tonight?” Phildan asks as I find a polished rosewood comb.
“Don’t be silly.” I ruffle his head before getting to work on Pudan. “I’m only having a birthday party.”
“But you’re going to get married.” Phildan settles back on his heels and crosses his arms in a sulk. “And leave us.”
“Not for a while.” It can’t come soon enough, though I won’t say that to my brothers.
They don’t need to know how eagerly I’m anticipating marrying the duke and beginning my life of splendor.
“And you’ll visit me often, you know. Wouldn’t you like to get off this mountain and explore Glen Violet?
If, that is,” I add piously, “His Grace wants to marry me.”
“Of course he does.” Phildan snorts just like Father. “You’re pretty.”
I smile, accepting the compliment. “You should go back to bed if you want to stay up for the party tonight.”
“I don’t want to go to bed!” Pudan whines.
“We want to go to the woods with you.” Phildan puffs himself up in an attempt to look older than his eight years. “To protect you.”
Realizing he’s serious, I hide my amusement and sink into a crouch.
“You’re so brave.” I take his small hand.
“But you know Melusine can be very odd and doesn’t like extra people stomping around her glade.
” The lie slips off my tongue easily. I doubt my godmother would care if they came along, but I want to enjoy the quiet of the forest without their thousand questions.
“Why don’t you run to the stables and make sure everything is ready for our visitors today?
I think the stable master could use your help. ”
The boys glance at each other, unsure.
“If you do,” I promise, “I’ll give you an extra-big slice of cake tonight.”
If my Charm didn’t quite convince them, cake is effective, and they scamper off.
Sweet boys. I will miss them after I marry the duke, but surely it isn’t so wrong of me to want to be alone on my birthday? I toss aside the nagging guilt over the disappointment on their faces and leisurely finish my preparations for the day.
A final check in the mirror confirms Pudan’s earlier compliment. I am indeed pretty—beautiful, in fact. A pleasant thrill comes over me as I admire myself. One more Gift, and it will undoubtedly be Melusine’s most crowning one. I toss an elegant silver shawl over my green dress and leave the room.
It’s time for me to meet my godmother.
Or it would be time, if I didn’t run right into the housekeeper in the hallway.
“Lady Agatha,” she says with a bob. “Happiest of birthdays.” She bobs again. Her pointed topknot waggles.
I stifle a sigh and chase the irritation from my face. “Thank you, Mrs. Dorian.”
Mrs. Dorian looks at me admiringly through her pince-nez. Awful things, those pince-nez. Make a person look very goggly. I’ve possessed the Gift of Good Eyesight since my fourth birthday, so I am comfortably sure to never need them.
“Oh, you are a pretty thing,” Mrs. Dorian finally says with a sigh. “If I may say so, your ladyship.”
I look down with a pretense of modesty. “You’re too kind. Was there something particular you needed?” My lashes flutter back up as my voice trails off, and I hope she’ll figure out that I’m in a hurry.
“Well, yes, if you’ve the time.”
“For you, certainly.” I smile, giving only a tiny glance toward the window at the end of the hall. Does she not know I have somewhere important to be? “What do you need, Mrs. Dorian?”
She retrieves a sheaf of papers from under her bony arm and riffles through them. “It’s the menu again,” she says apologetically.
I only half-listen to the explanation of why Cook can’t make both the blancmange and the syllabub—not enough eggs, or spoiled milk, or something else I don’t care about.
If there’s one thing I hate, and always will hate, it’s menus.
Nothing gets me crosser than asking my opinion about what to serve.
There’s a reason we pay very good wages to a cook and a housekeeper: they’re supposed to figure out what to feed people!
I understand that Cook has never fed such a crowd before, especially not one containing a duke, but the way she’s carried on about the menu for months now—!
A person would think that everyone was coming just for the food!
When I marry the duke, I decide, I will never give my opinion on menus. His cook will simply have to figure it out herself.
“And so we wanted your thoughts, your ladyship.” Mrs. Dorian taps the last sheet of paper and goggles at me anxiously. “Do you think that would be acceptable?”
“I trust you and Cook completely, Mrs. Dorian.” I take a moment to pretend to consider whatever options she’d presented. “I know you’ll do the family credit.”
Mrs. Dorian puffs up a bit. “I thought you’d like my ideas. I’ll tell Cook to change the menu again.”
I wrinkle my forehead and look at Mrs. Dorian with wide, pleading eyes. “I do hate to put more on her,” I murmur. “It is so very last-minute! Your ideas are magnificent, as always, but would it be kind to poor Cook? I know you value her peace as much as I do.”
Mrs. Dorian wavers momentarily between flattered and piqued. I maintain my pleading stare until she settles on flattered.
I run a finger down the sheet of paper she’s been gabbing about. “If his grace—that is, if all goes as we hope”—a knowing smile—“this will be only the beginning of our large parties. Your improved menu will be just the thing for next time.”
That does it. Mrs. Dorian rearranges her lists with a happy clicking noise.
“I see what you mean, your ladyship! Future parties, indeed!” She taps them against her other hand to straighten the pile, then pauses to look me up and down, blinking away a tear behind the pince-nez.
Her voice turns sentimental. “Twenty-one already,” she says.
“My, how fast it’s seemed! And how dull the house will be without you—if I may be so bold, your ladyship! ”
“If anyone may be bold, it’s you.” I smile at the old housekeeper. “No matter where I end up, I’ll always think of you as part of the family. You may say anything you like.”
Now she’s really sniffing. She’d better take off those pince-nez before they become flooded.
“Oh, your ladyship! Family! I’d never have thought—I declare, I wouldn’t be so brash—but I have always thought of you all, especially your own self, with such affection!”
I’m sure she has. Everyone thinks of me with affection; it’s the Gifts.
I allow her to embrace me, taking care not to wrinkle my green silk, and shoo her off to give Cook the glad news. I hope the duke won’t be offended by our lack of syllabub, or blancmange, or whatever we’d just axed from tonight’s menu.
I’m sure I shall miss Mrs. Dorian eventually.
It’s just that she’s so smothering. Doting, and complimenting, and crying, and always needing my opinion about everything!
As if she’s not a grown woman, and I barely an adult!
As if I can fill whatever daughterly vacancy she has merely because I live in the same house!
I keep these disgruntled thoughts to myself and glide serenely down the hallway. I’ve nearly made it to the door when I am assaulted yet again.
“Oh, Agatha … is that you?” Stepmother’s voice floats out from the door of the open sitting room that I was about to pass. I raise my eyes to the ceiling—just for an instant—and turn in.
Stepmother is a thin, dark woman, with a long nose and even longer fingers that are always tapping on something. This morning they’re drumming on a book that rests in her lap.
“You’re up early this morning, Stepmother.” I perch on the edge of a chair across from her. The fireplace crackles low in its hearth. Stepmother is always cold.
“Yes—well, no.” Her tapping gets faster. “Such a wonderful book … simply couldn’t put it down …”
“Stepmother,” I chide, “don’t tell me you’ve been up reading all night again.”
She blushes a bit. “You’d understand … if you liked reading, dear … simply a wonderful book …”
Some of us, I think witheringly, have no time for reading, because we’re always being pulled about to fix menus and brush little boys’ hair and trundle our stepmothers off to bed.
Thanks to the Poise, these thoughts do not show on my face. I take Stepmother by the hand and help her up. “Let’s get you tucked in.”
She sighs in her abstract way and allows me to guide her out of the room.
“Always so thoughtful … thank you …”
She does not wish me happy birthday, which shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. I’m sure she’ll remember later.
If she doesn’t get caught up in another novel.
“Remember the party tonight, Stepmother,” I say as we amble down the corridor toward her bedroom. I wiggle a playful finger at her. “You’d better not begin another book, or you’ll miss it entirely.”
“Oh—oh, yes.” Stepmother’s narrow forehead wrinkles. “I had forgotten. Oh!” She stops walking. I groan internally. “It is … your birthday!”
“It is.” My lips curve graciously and I apply a touch of pressure to her elbow, hoping she’ll keep walking, but instead she angles herself toward me and takes my hands in hers.
“Why, I had … forgotten!” She presses my fingers languidly. “Happy … birthday … Agatha.”
Waiting for Stepmother to finish her thoughts is, perhaps, the most excruciating thing I could experience today. Her pauses and yawns and constant trailings-off would have me tearing my hair out if my Gift of Poise would allow it.
Come to think of it, the hair was my first birthday Gift, and it’s pretty firmly attached; I could yank with a deal of might without tearing it out. And I will, if I’m forced to endure Stepmother’s drawling much longer.
I know it’s wrong to think such things, but as I keep my sarcasm firmly to myself, there’s no harm in it. It’s probably helpful, really; wouldn’t I go mad if I had to control my very thoughts the way I control everything else?
“Thank you, Stepmother.”
A trace of worry darkens her face. “And your … engagement. Oh, dear, I was meaning to … have a discussion with you … about men …”
“Don’t fret yourself.” I slip my hands free and take a little step down the corridor. She follows, fingers drumming her thighs.
“Your own mother would have been … more suited … I suppose.”
I rest my hand on her shoulder, giving her a gentle squeeze and coaxing her another pace closer to her room. “My own mother? You’re the only mother I’ve known.”
This brings a smile to her thin face. Her drumming stills long enough to reach up and clasp my hand. Then she sighs. “My dearest Agatha … what shall we do without you?”
“You mustn’t speak as though we’ll be parted forever, Stepmother.” Affection colors my tone. “You and Father and the boys must come visit after I’m married.”
She blanches. “I don’t know … that I could handle the journey …”
“Then I shall return to visit you,” I promise. Really, that would be better. Imagine her in the duke’s manor, rapping on all the walls and drawing out all her your … graces! Yes, the journey would be too much for her.
“The house will seem so … lifeless when you’re gone.” She sighs, drooping a bit.
“Well, let us not fret.” We’ve nearly made it to the stairs.
Shall I ever leave this house? Wrapping an arm around her thin frame, I continue.
“Perhaps I shall have a long engagement, or perhaps I shall end up marrying one of the local lords. We won’t borrow trouble just yet.
” I let her lean into my embrace for a moment before leading her a few more steps.
“Now, perhaps you’d like me to get you into bed and ring for some tea? ”
Her lips stretch into a wan smile. “Shouldn’t I be the one … pampering you?”
“Nonsense.” I lead her up the curling staircase, my silk hem swishing gently against the stone. “You need someone to look after you, too, you know.”
She looks truly happy by the time I’ve helped her into her dressing gown and plumped her cushions and adjusted the curtain.
I should probably wait for a maid to bring the teapot so I can prepare her cup just the way she likes it—extra honey, no cream—but the morning has already advanced so far that I’ll have to hurry to get to the glade and back before preparing for the party tonight.
My preparations, naturally, aren’t excessive; I don’t need the powders or creams that other young women might. But I still like to take my time dressing.
So I murmur a saccharine, “Rest well, Stepmother,” and rustle away, thankful to be free at last.
And now I can go meet Melusine.