Chapter Ten - The First Salon #2
She closed her eyes, feeling dizzy, and was glad for the arm he had offered.
Sound was muffled, as if her head had been plunged under water, and she was not sure if she was screaming or not.
The bottom of her stomach dropped, like she was falling from a great height, causing her to feel nauseous.
When the mists finally faded, and she could feel her feet on solid ground once more, she dropped Osric’s arm and moved away from him.
She held one hand to her mouth as she fought down the nausea.
When she opened her eyes, he was watching her with folded arms, an amused expression on his face.
“Takes some getting used to,” he said with a smirk, “you’ll get there.”
Arsehole.
She tried to morph her expression into something passing grateful and said, “Thank you.”
She was grateful in a way. This was the first time she had been out of Blackthorn Hall in weeks. As much as she was anxious about this first meeting with the royal ladies of the court, it was a taste of freedom. Away from that house of decay.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to take you back. Too much to do,” he said in quick clipped tones, “I’ll send word to Blackthorn Hall to send a carriage. The ladies are just through there,” he gave her one last grin, “good luck.”
In another swirl of grey he disappeared, and Rosamund turned to the large golden doors he had gestured towards.
They towered above her, glittering and intimidating, inlaid with the crest of Prince Gawain; a golden lion with the sun above it.
Banners of white, red and gold fluttered on either side, as servants of the same livery stepped forward to open the doors.
As they swung open, she did her best to smooth down the dark brown and gold brocade silk dress she had put on that morning.
It had been her intention to head to the conservatory after breakfast, not a royal salon.
With relief she was glad she had not donned her house colours.
Even muddy gardening dress would likely be better received than the claret and cobalt of House Valehart.
She reached up to sweep her plait over her shoulder, only just realising that it was still damp from her bath that morning and positioned her skirts in an effort to hide the muddy riding boots.
I should have asked him to wait, but it was too late now.
There was a collective gasp as she stepped into the room, and Rosamund recognised her mistake.
Each of the six ladies gathered was dressed in the same colours as banners that she had seen outside.
The colours of Prince Gawain and Princess Celeste.
Though each had chosen a different style of dress, the colours remained the same; red, white and gold.
Lavinia, clad in a dress that hugged every part of her, lounged on one of the white chaises cackled.
“I told you she was a country bumpkin,” she said delightedly, “didn’t I tell you?”
The woman she spoke to sat in the centre on a snowy white throne that stood out on the plush scarlet carpet of the room.
She regarded Rosamund with a raised eyebrow; her head tilted to the side.
Her dark curls framed her face, crowning her head like a halo and woven into them were golden sun shaped clasps.
Her rich bronze-brown complexion was smooth and unblemished, and her large dark eyes, flecked with gold, were intelligent and observing.
Her long-sleeved golden dress, inlaid with glittering rubies, had a plunging neckline that dropped almost to her navel, the hem of the heavy looking dress pooling around her feet.
“Quiet Lavinia,” hissed Isolde, sitting on the chaise opposite, one hand on the stomach of the tightly laced red bodice that only served to lift her considerable bosom to even further prominence.
“Welcome Lady Rosamund,” said the elegant woman in a warm rich tone, “I am pleased that you could join us.”
“Th-thank you,” she stammered, her hand reaching up to fidget with her father’s ring.
“‘Thank you, your highness’, you are not one of us yet Lady Rosamund,” said the waspish looking woman to the immediate left of the dark-skinned woman, in a smaller armchair of her own.
Her raven black hair had been swept back from her face with a crimson headpiece inlaid with golden crescent moons and pearls along the edge.
The bodice and sleeves of her dress were the same red as the headpiece, but her voluminous silk skirts were a brilliant white as they cascaded to the floor.
Her features were so sharp she wondered that she didn’t cut herself every time she washed her face.
Her dark eyebrows gave the impression she had a permanent scowl, her lips pinched.
“Forgive me, thank you, your highness,” said Rosamund quickly, and after they continued to stare at her expectantly, she bobbed a curtsy.
This resulted in another titter of laughter from Lavinia and a sucking in of air from the dark-haired older woman.
“Do they not teach you how to curtsy in the country?” asked Lavinia in sickly sweet tones.
“I’m out of practice,” said Rosamund before she could swallow back the words, “on account of the exile.”
Lavinia choked on her wine before breaking out into a fresh round of cackling.
The two older women looked unimpressed, as the youngest amongst them, a delicate looking woman with light brown hair winced, nervously clasping her hands together.
Rosamund immediately regretted her words and quickly softened her expression to something more apologetic.
Before she could express her regret, the dark-haired woman said quietly, “Clearly.”
The woman clad in gold gave her sister-in-law a sidelong look before turning her attention back to Rosamund, “We have much to discuss and we are eager to know you. I am Princess Celeste, wife of Prince Gawain,” she gestured to the woman to her left, “this is Princess Seraphine, wife of Prince Luceran, Princesses Elswyth, Isolde and Lavinia, I understand you already know.”
“I do,” said Rosamund and smiled warmly at the first two, ignoring Lavinia, which elicited another sucking in of air from Seraphine, and a few more winces from the others.
Celeste looked irritated at her interruption but continued on, “And this,” she gestured to the youngest, “is Princess Marianne, wife of Prince Osric.”
The woman smiled nervously at her, looking for all the world as though she would like nothing more than to sink into the white and red harlequin patterned dress that drowned her small, slight frame.
Her wide hazel eyes darted between the ladies and then back to Rosamund, hating the attention being paid to her.
“It is lovely to meet you all,” said Rosamund at a loss for anything else to say.
“Please, join us,” encouraged Celeste as she raised her hand for the attention of one of the servants lining the walls.
Rosamund looked between the two chaises and elected for the one with Elswyth and Isolde.
Partly out of comfort at knowing the two, and partly out of having little desire to sit with Lavinia.
However, as she approached the chaise, again there was a rise of tension in the room.
Elswyth gave her the smallest shake of her head and gestured with her eyes to the other chaise.
Redness rising to her cheeks she crossed to the other side, ignoring Lavinia’s smirk as she sat down on the other side of Marianne who quickly shifted away from her.
“So tell us a little about yourself,” said Celeste, “what do you enjoy? What do you like to do?”
“Do you sing?” asked Isolde excitedly.
“Embroidery perhaps?” said Seraphine.
All eyes were on her. She forced herself to stop fidgeting with the ring and gripped the chair instead, “Well, I…uh…like to garden…and read…my old stablemaster said he knew few that could ride like me.”
There was another burst of cackling from Lavinia, who only stopped when Seraphine shot her a sharp look. Looking around them, none of them looked impressed at her list of ‘talents’. Celeste cleared her throat.
“Do let me know if you require the use of my dressmaker Lady Rosamund,” she said, as one of the servants approached with a tray of drinks and starting with her, began to offer them to the ladies, “I suggest we certainly engage them for the making of your wedding dress. You are in Aurelmere now. It would be wise to expand your wardrobe.”
“That’s very kind of you, your highness,” said Rosamund, feeling the heat that was rolling off her cheeks.
She gratefully reached for the golden goblet on the servants tray, “Thank you.”
The servant’s eyes widened in surprised as they stood up straight, glancing to Celeste in fear.
Again, everyone shifted around her uncomfortably.
Seraphine tutted, Lavinia giggled into her wine and Celeste cleared her throat, feigning ignorance.
A quick glance across the room revealed a pitying look from Isolde and a concerned frown from Elswyth.
Rosamund gripped the goblet in her hands tighter.
It was like making her way across a frozen lake.
Every footstep there was another crack, and she was waiting for the moment she plunged fully through the ice.
Whatever she said, whatever she did; it was wrong.
She was not ready for this; she was drowning and with a growing dread she knew that none of these women would throw her a lifeline.
Rage bubbled under the surface, mixing with the already present mortification, causing her hands to shake.
“Yes, well,” said Celeste, her dark eyes fixed on Rosamund, “you are still very new to the city, and it will take time to find your own dressmaker of the standard we require.”
“Certainly with the speed at which his majesty wishes this wedding to happen,” said Seraphine, almost conspiratorially to the older Princess who huffed a laugh, “men have little understanding of how long these things take to plan.”