The Commoners Ball
Eyes. There are so many eyes staring at us. At me.
Beside me, Hugh—no, Prince Fitzhugh! —beams and nods to the crowd, keeping me firmly beside him as we descend the steps. I can’t smile; I can barely keep my mouth shut. It keeps wanting to drop open.
“I thought this was a ball for commoners!” My whisper is, perhaps, a bit screechier than intended.
Hugh peers down at me. “It is.”
I survey the room, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. “Well, where are they?”
“Ah, you’re the broad-minded type, Miss Smith!” he says, smiling. I’ve never seen such perfectly straight teeth. “What, would you have us fill the palace with urchins?”
“ You’re the one who invited me ,” I say. He laughs.
We’re down the stairs now, and the crowd parts for us to get through. Hugh releases my arm and bows. “Dance with me, Miss Smith?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just grabs my hands to lead me to the dance floor .
“I don’t dance!” I protest.
“Just follow my lead! I’m an excellent instructor.”
The musicians strike up a new tune—much faster than I can hope to keep up with—and the prince whirls me around the floor. I struggle to follow, nearly running into other couples every time he changes direction. I suppose this could be enjoyable, if I had a lot more practice and a lot less scrutiny; as it is, I’d rather be mucking a hog pen.
I’m beginning to fear that the dance will never end, and I will die of hunger here in the middle of a crowded ballroom, when the musicians finally pause on the final chord. I stop, panting. I was already tired from my long walk. My stomach gurgles again.
Hugh chuckles. “Not so bad, yes? Here, the next is slower.” Without missing a beat, he has me in his arms again, this time twirling sedately. I catch on to these steps more easily, but I can’t enjoy the dance. He has me tucked very snugly in his arms, closer than I’ve ever been held by a man, and a blush colors my cheeks. I’ll blame it on the stuffiness of the room.
“Well, Miss Smith,” he says, tightening his grip, “isn’t this nice?” His eyes twinkle.
“I’m still deciding.” I try to wriggle out of his grasp.
He chuckles, keeping me close, and winks at me. I can’t hold his gaze, so I look around the room instead, trying to remember everything—the bob of feathered headdresses, the rustle of dancing gowns, the arch of the painted ceiling. My gawking probably isn’t helping me to be any more graceful, but Hugh is holding me firmly enough that I keep up anyhow. I want to put everything in a letter to Mum and Dad, although I’m not sure they’ll particularly approve of my being here; I don’t think I’ll mention this dance, at any rate.
Hugh spins me in one final circle as the music comes to an end. He holds me a moment longer than necessary, so I push myself away.
“Well, thank you for your time.” I offer a clumsy curtsy, the only kind I know how to do. “I would hate to keep you from your other guests. ”
“Not at all!” He falls into step beside me as I navigate away from the dance floor where a violently energetic jig is beginning. I shudder, imagining what would have happened if he tried to lead me through that. Would I be put in prison if I hopped on the prince’s shoe and broke his foot? I must ask Chemmy about it later.
“I’ve just been—well, call it bored,” he confides as we stroll through the room.
I get distracted by a large painting on the wall—very blotchy in style, but what do I know about art?—and forget to listen to whatever comes next.
“—and then you appeared!” He grabs my hand and raises it to his lips before tucking it into his arm again.
I hope whatever I missed wasn’t important. “Oh—certainly. Your Highness.”
“Call me Hugh.” He grins. “How nice it is to be truly understood! Now, some refreshments?”
I don’t hesitate to answer this time. “Please!” The prince chuckles at my eagerness and steers me toward the far side of the room.
Before we can get to the refreshments, we are intercepted near a tapestry depicting an angelic queen of old. (I like it much more than the blotchy painting.) The man who steps in front of us is a good inch shorter than the prince, though I still have to look up to meet his stern brown eyes.
“Hugh, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of being introduced to your guest.” He speaks to my companion, but his dark eyes study me. His voice is low and serious. I gulp and hope I’m not gaping.
“Did you miss our introduction?” Hugh asks lightly. “This is my beloved guest, Miss Smith.” He emphasizes the beloved and pats my hand. I come to my senses and try to curtsy, but with Hugh holding my hand, my attempt is horribly lopsided. I flush.
The man is still considering me. “Does Miss Smith have a first name?”
“No,” I blurt. “My parents couldn’t afford one—commoners, you understand.” Hugh laughs, but I flush deeper. What am I saying ?
The man’s lips almost twitch. “How—unfortunate.” He breaks my gaze to glance at Hugh, and I can finally breathe again. “And do you care to introduce me to Miss Smith, brother?”
Brother? Another prince? If I’d known I was going to run into two princes at this ridiculous ball, I would’ve stayed far away and nibbled my cold supper with Chemmy. She positively promised that they wouldn’t notice me!
“Ah, this is my older and less charming brother, Luke.” Hugh’s voice is flippant, and he starts to tug me forward. “We were on our way to refreshments.”
“There are no princes named Luke,” I object.
Hugh grins. “He’s really Inglebert, but I don’t like to use it.”
“I wouldn’t either! I’m sure I could never call you Inglebert ,” I say to the older prince—the crown prince! I wince as the words leave my mouth. I should at least make an attempt to watch my tongue!
“Could you not?” he replies, faintly.
I clear my throat. “We have a hog, you see—named him Inglebert when he was just a piglet, because he would strut around the sty with such a princely air!—but he’s bitten me one too many times on my—” I flush. “Anyhow. I do not care for that name.”
Prince Inglebert, or Luke, or whatever he’s called, is staring at me, lips parted in a little O .
“Well done, Miss Smith!” Hugh claps me on the back. “You’ve flustered him—you’ve really flustered him! Ha! That’s difficult to do, you know!”
Oh, Chemmy is going to love this story.
“Pardon me, sir—Your Highness?—what am I to call you?” I squeak.
“Not Inglebert, certainly,” the older prince chokes. I hope it’s humor, and not outrage, or else I really do run the risk of being thrown in prison. “My middle name is Lucas. Did you—did you really name a pig after me?”
“Not just any pig,” I assure him. “He’s a woolly hog. They’re quite intelligent. ”
“Ah.”
Hugh’s broad smile splits his face in two, still firmly holding me to himself. “Didn’t I tell you I’d find someone tonight?” he asks Luke-Inglebert-Lucas—I shake my head to clear it. I’ll just call him Lucas; if I think of him as the crown prince, I’m sure I’ll start shaking and stammering.
And wouldn’t that be embarrassing.
Any humor I hoped to see in Lucas’ face swiftly disappears. His eyes dart to me and then back to Hugh, and he lowers his voice. “I am trying to keep you from causing a scene.”
“Should I be insulted by that?” I wonder aloud.
I should have wondered it quietly, because the princes, who had been staring each other down, both turn their attention back to me.
Hugh chuckles. “You should!” he says. “Luke is trying to say you’re not fit to be seen with me.”
“I’m really not,” I agree. “If you could just tell me where to find the food—”
“I’ll take you,” Lucas says.
Hugh chuckles again and releases my arm, but not before pressing a warm kiss on my palm. I wipe it on my skirt without thinking.
“Now, I am insulted by that!” Hugh says, but his eyes are bright. “I’ll leave you in my brother’s capable hands, but not because I am tired of you!” He bows. “I think you will annoy him very much, and if there’s one thing I love more than causing a scene, it’s annoying Luke!”
“I’m not going to annoy him on purpose,” I protest, but Hugh only laughs and blows another kiss to me as he disappears back into the crowd.
With a gulp, I turn to Lucas. While Hugh was childish, more annoying than intimidating, I’m unsettled by Lucas’ serious gaze. I try to smile. “You really don’t have to worry about me,” I reassure him. “If you could only point the way—”
“I shall accompany you,” he interrupts with a shake of his head, his lips downturned. He doesn’t offer his arm as his brother did, merely turning and leading the way through the crowd. Hugh had been steering me toward a long table on one end of the room, but Lucas pivots and takes me through an arched doorway. It’s wreathed with ivy and roses; the scent caresses me as I pass through. I sigh with relief when we leave the crowded ballroom behind and look with wonder at the hallway we’ve stepped into. How long does it stretch? I can barely see the far end.
Lucas doesn’t stop. I hurry to follow, looking around as much as possible as I scamper behind him. We pass ten doors, three portraits, five potted plants, and a suit of armor before he stops and opens a door on the left side of the hall and waves me through.
I obey slowly. I don’t know what sort of room this is—maybe a parlor, or a sitting room, or a breakfast-on-Thursdays room—but it’s nearly as large as my family’s whole cottage. Lucas steps to the wall and flips a switch. A gasolier flares to life. I watch with wonder, craning my neck to admire the hanging lights.
“Aren’t you nervous about burning the whole palace down?”
His dark brows draw together when he looks at me. “Nervous?” he repeats.
I point at the gasolier. “Were you scared when you first used one?”
“I—no, I don’t think I was.”
I step closer to him and the brass switch. “Can I try it? Please?”
“You want to turn the light on?” He sounds faintly confused.
“Unless—is that against the rules? Will it be damaged by putting it out again so soon?” I turn my attention to the prince, who is standing very still, lips parted, and looking at me. I flush and wish I hadn’t turned my attention to him after all.
“You—you may try it, if you like.”
I don’t wait for him to retract the offer. At my touch, the lights fizzle out and then spark back to life. I flex my fingers as if I’ve just performed some sort of Folk magic and grin at the prince. “Thank you! Chemmy will never believe this!”
Lucas blinks. Well, let him blink; I am going to enjoy myself. I turn slowly to admire the rest of the room.
“Exactly how did you come to know my brother, Miss Smith?”
There is an interesting picture on one of the walls, and I walk over to look at it. “I met him at the door.”
Lucas sighs. “You met him at the door?”
“Well, yes.” I glance over my shoulder. He looks skeptical. “The servant didn’t want to let me in, and Hugh—Prince Fitzhugh, that is—of course I didn’t realize he was a prince—showed up just in time to invite me in.”
“Just in time,” he echoes.
“Stop repeating me, please.” I finish my inspection of the portrait and turn to face Lucas, tucking my hands behind my back.
Lucas sighs again and runs a hand through his hair. “Miss Smith, do you truly expect me to believe your story? Don’t you think it sounds suspicious?”
“Suspicious! I thought this event was to welcome commoners.”
“I do not believe there was a Miss Smith on the invitation list.” Lucas pulls a red cord on the wall.
“Well, I wasn’t precisely invited,” I say primly. “But I am common.”
Lucas eyes me. “Not very, I think.”
I narrow my own eyes, unsure whether or not this is a compliment.
“Sit. And tell me your name.”
“Not even going to pull out a chair for me? Oh, wait—I’m annoying you, aren’t I?” I plop onto a velvet cushion and wiggle appreciatively. “Hester Flanders,” I say. “And I really didn’t mean to cause you trouble.”
Lucas pulls out a chair across the table and sits slowly. He folds his hands in front of him—and just looks at me.
I flush. Why must he be so handsome?
“Miss Flanders,” he finally says. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“You can start with your age and where you are from. ”
“Nineteen this summer, and a village in Ramsfeldshire,” I say. “I moved here last month.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t say it like that!”
“Like—” Lucas lets out a long breath. “Your pardon, Miss Flanders. What brought you to Wellington-upon-Chesbury?”
That’s an easy answer, anyhow. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to live in the capital, ever since I was a little girl. There’s so much to see here.” I prop my elbows on the table and survey the room again as I speak. When Lucas isn’t paying attention, I’ll feel those velvet drapes.
“Your family remains in Ramsfeldshire?”
“My parents, yes. I’ll bring them here as soon as I can.” I finally turn my attention back to Lucas. “Have you been?”
“Been?”
“To Ramsfeldshire.”
“Ah—yes, once.” Something in his dark eyes lightens. “I remember seeing many hogs.”
“Finest wool in the country.” I grin, resting my chin on my hands. “You should get some.”
Lucas doesn’t quite smile, but he’s not frowning so much anymore, either. “And what brought you to the ball tonight, Miss Flanders?”
Another easy answer. “The food, of course.”
“You came for the food?”
“If you’d ever had to work for your keep, you wouldn’t laugh.” But there’s no reproach in my voice. Chemmy’s been hungry plenty, too, and even she thought this was a ridiculous idea.
“I do not think I laughed, Miss Flanders.” The stern lines around Lucas’ eyes have softened, and his gaze travels over me with something more like sympathy.
A knock sounds at the door, and my heart falls. Suppose it’s Hugh back to parade me around again! But instead of the younger prince, a round-faced maid enters the room, curtsying to Lucas.
“Miss Flanders needs some dinner,” Lucas says. “And send Rodering here.”
The maid dips again. “At once, Your Highness.”
He glances at me as she exits. “The regular dinner isn’t served yet,” he explains, “but if you don’t mind eating alone—”
“I can actually eat? Oh, thank you, sir! Your Highness! It’s not—it’s not charity , though, is it?”
Lucas blinks. “Does that matter to you?”
“Of course it does! I thought guests got food, as a sort of trade, you know—but if you think I’m suspicious, then I’m not a guest, so I shouldn’t be eating at all—maybe I’d better just leave—” I push myself away from the table and stand.
“Miss Flanders,” Lucas interrupts. He motions for me to sit again. Even though he apparently does not know how to smile, his eyes are still gentle. Lucas isn’t looking at me like I am only a shabby commoner, or an ignorant outsider, or a superstitious child; he just sees me.
And somehow, I feel understood.
I swallow my ramblings and sink back into my seat, and something flutters to life inside me. Something warm and nice and—and absolutely inappropriate! This is the crown prince I’m goggling at!
Lucas flicks his gaze over my bony frame. “I really think you should eat,” he says.
“So you’re accepting me as a guest?”
“Miss Flanders,” Lucas says, a pained expression on his face, “I do not want you to stay after you eat.”
“I would be insulted, but I do not want to stay, either.” I use my most gracious tone.
Lucas surprises me by saying, “I did not mean it as an insult. However you came here tonight—”
I lean forward slightly. “Yes?”
“My brother is … impetuous.” He glances at the portrait on the wall behind me. When he speaks again, it is deliberate. “He had his heart broken recently, and I worry that he may make a hasty choice for his next beau. ”
My cheeks heat. “I barely spoke to him! I don’t think that you need to worry on—on that account.”
But Lucas doesn’t seem reassured. “You do not know my brother, Miss Flanders.”
“If he falls in love that easily, he’ll fall out easily enough, too.”
“Certainly,” he agrees. “But still, it would be more pleasant for you if you don’t encourage him.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The maid returns, bearing a steaming tray. The scent causes my stomach to growl, and I flush again. She places the tray on the table before me. What a feast! There’s a bowl of steaming fruit, and a gelatinous stew, and a crusty sort of bread, and a thick piece of roast meat, and at least three kinds of pickles, and a pastry seeping a deep red filling—and most importantly, two kinds of cheese!
“It’s not the full meal,” Lucas apologizes. “But hopefully enough to satisfy.”
My eyes grow wider. “You usually eat more than this?”
Lucas almost smiles—almost. When he stands, I begin to rise too, but he gestures for me to stay seated. “I must return to the rest of our company. My man Rodering will wait for you in the hall, and get you anything else you might need. When you are finished, he will call a carriage to take you home.”
“A carriage, sir! I mean—Your Highness!” I shake my head. “Thank you, but I can walk perfectly well!”
Lucas frowns. “Where do you live, Miss Flanders?”
“Close enough to walk.”
“You will have a carriage take you back,” he says, and there’s firmness in his voice. “No guest of ours will walk home in the dark, especially not a young lady.” He bows to me. “Please do not speak to Hugh again, Miss Flanders.”
Then he’s gone. The room feels large and empty when I’m by myself, but my stomach won’t ignore the steaming food any longer.
This is why I’m here, after all.
I eat as much as I can, and wrap up anything I think will keep for tomorrow. I’d brought a handkerchief in my pocket for just that purpose. Still, there’s some left over on the tray when I’m finished. I hate to waste food, but I simply don’t see how I can transport soup home in a kerchief. Regretfully, I rise and wander back to the hall—after I run my hand over the velvet drapes. They’re as soft as they look.
As promised, a man—Rodering, I presume—stands at attention in the hallway. “Finished, miss?”
“Yes, thank you. I left the rest of the tray on the table—shall I put it somewhere, or … ?”
“No, miss, we’ll clear it up for you. If you’ll follow me.”
He leads the way through the hall—bypassing, I note with thanks, the ballroom. When we reach the entrance, Rodering gives some instructions to yet another servant—I wonder how many people are employed here, and if it’s more than live in the whole of Lower Splott—who disappears for a moment, then returns with my cloak. “Thank you!” I smile, but my brightness fades when I hear a voice behind me.
“Luke thought he could sneak you away, eh?” Hugh booms. Rodering stiffens, obviously displeased, but Hugh chuckles. “I have my spies, too, you know.” He turns to me. “ Must you leave already?”
“I’m afraid I have to be at work in the morning.” A yawn escapes as I finish, and I smile sheepishly. “And I’m already so tired.”
“Work? Where does a pretty girl like you work?”
“Mistress Hardinge’s linens shop on Willowby Street, sir—Your Highness.” I wonder belatedly if I should have told him, but I don’t think any harm can come of it. He never even bothered to learn my name.
A rattling sounds outside the door, and Rodering coughs. “That will be your carriage, miss.”
Hugh takes my hand, steps close to me, and raises it to his lips slowly. “I shall call on you sometime, then, Miss Smith.” I don’t like the look in his eyes, and Lucas’ warning flashes through my mind.
“Oh, I don’t think you need to do that, Your Highness! But thank you for the lovely evening.” I smile at him and slip away. Rodering shows me into the shadowed carriage and asks for my address so he can tell the driver where to go, and I fall asleep nearly as soon as we pull down the long drive.
I don’t wake until I hear the driver’s “whoa!” and feel the carriage jolt to a stop. Rubbing my bleary eyes, I peer out the window. Well, that certainly is faster than walking. Although I suppose my sense of time might be off, what with the sleeping.
The door pulls open, and I clasp my cloak around me when the chilly air seeps in. This is warmer than walking, too. I’ll have to remember that; after I save enough to move my parents here—yes, with all my extra money I’ll buy myself a carriage just like this. I grin sleepily at my own foolishness.
“You’re forgetting your basket, miss,” the driver says as I begin to step out. I glance around in confusion before spying the basket on the other seat.
“Oh, that’s not mine.”
“’Twas sent for you,” he replies mildly.
I purse my lips. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t take it.” I’m already wondering if I should have accepted this carriage ride—my conscience is pricking me that I wasn’t a true guest, and I would hate to be in debt to the stuffy older prince.
Even if I do like his eyes.
The door to the house is locked. Did I really stay so late? I should have eaten faster. I rap gently. Shivering, I shove my hands in my pockets, being careful not to disturb the packet I saved from dinner. After a few moments, I rap again, louder, and finally I hear the thumping of Mistress Mungon’s footsteps and the slow creaking of the door.
“Who’s there, now?” One of her black eyes peers out, and I catch a glimpse of her nightcap already settled on her gray curls.
“Hester, ma’am. Sorry to be so late.”
Mistress Mungon grumbles but pulls the door open for me, and I call my thanks to the driver, who waits until I’m safely inside before he clicks to the horse to move on .
“Curfew was ten minutes ago, Miss Flanders.” Mistress Mungon frowns in the darkness. “We’ll discuss this in the morning!”
I mumble my apologies before I feel my way up the stairs. The door to the room I share with Chemmy isn’t locked, and faint light shows underneath. Inside, she’s sleeping on the chair, a stubby candle dripping wax on the table. She starts when I step in.
“I told you not to wait for me!”
Chemmy yawns. “I was too worried to go to bed.”
“And for no reason,” I say. “I didn’t even get thrown in prison.”
“I want to know all about it.” Chemmy yawns again.
“In the morning,” I reply. I don’t dare tell her tales of princes and dancing right now, or we’ll never get any sleep tonight.
And if, as I curl into bed, I’m remembering a pair of warm brown eyes, who can blame me?