I’ll Make Her a Princess
The Commoners Ball lasts until the early hours of the morning. When the final guest, a talkative wine merchant eager to discuss new import policies, takes his leave, I stalk up to Hugh’s suite. I knock and wait for his slurred instruction to enter.
“What were you thinking?” I say as soon as I step into the sitting room. The door closes with a soft snick.
Hugh’s lounging in a bright yellow chair, one leg thrown over the armrest, jacket missing. “Delightful, isn’t she?” His left hand swirls a half-empty glass of bright red wine.
“Leave her alone, Hugh.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Fancy her for yourself?”
“You made a scene.”
“I told you I would find a girl to fall in love with, and I have. Lydia can have her old man now if she really wants him.” He throws his head back and gulps the rest of the wine.
“The very actions of a man who no longer cares.” I seat myself in another chair and stifle a yawn.
“And why do you care so much? ”
I run a hand over my face. “I’m trying to keep our family from becoming a laughingstock, Hugh.”
“It’s not like I proposed marriage to her.” Hugh unfolds himself and saunters across the room to pour another glass.
I chuckle. “Marriage? To a commoner? I hardly think even you would do that.”
“I could marry a commoner if I wanted.”
So, he is in one of his contrary moods. The wine’s probably to blame, or he may be more distraught over Miss Hitchingford than I realized. “We can have this conversation when you’re thinking more clearly.” I rise.
Hugh’s eyes narrow. “I’m thinking clear enough right now.” He takes another long sip. “Say whatever you came to say.”
“We can talk about it in the morning.”
“It is morning.”
I sigh.
“If you won’t come out and say it, shall I?” Hugh puffs out his chest, contorts his face into a grotesque scowl, and speaks in a mocking whine. “Hugh, you are a disgrace to our family. You need to be more responsible. You are unreliable. Stop having fun.”
“That isn’t what I was going to say.” I fold my arms across my chest.
“Oh?” He downs the rest of his wine and drops back into his chair.
“I was just going to say that you should leave the girl alone.”
“Why?”
“She is naive.” Or a very good liar—but I remember the way her wide gray eyes lit with amazement at the gasolier, and my instinct tells me she was genuine. “She’s not right for you.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“Hugh, you’ve courted, what, twelve women in the months since you turned eighteen? I think all the nobles know by now not to expect anything serious from you. This girl might not be aware of your … reputation. ”
“My reputation!” Hugh smiles. “So you think I’m unreliable, too!”
“Too?”
Hugh doesn’t answer directly. He rises with a stumble, hiccups, and says, “Listen, Luke, I keep my word. Lydia thought—never mind her. I said I would fall in love, and I have. And I’ll prove it. I’ll prove that I’m reliable . I’ll make that common girl—whatever her name was—I’ll make her a princess. She’ll be princess of Chesbury!” He staggers across the room until he’s close enough to jab his bony finger in my chest. “And when I do, then you’ll all know I’m the sort of man who keeps his word!”
I wrinkle my nose at the stench of wine on his breath. “You’re drunk. Get some sleep. If you’re this upset about Miss Hitchingford—”
“I keep my word, Luke!”
I gently push him toward the door to his bedroom. “Let me help you into bed.”
“Get your hands off me! I need another drink.” He shakes me off and returns to the side bar where the bottle of wine sits. He doesn’t bother with a glass.
“Well, I’m going to bed,” I say, but Hugh pins me with a glare as he wipes his sleeve across his mouth.
“You think I’m lying.” He hiccups again.
“I think you’re drunk.”
“I can make good decisions when I’m drunk. Besides,” he adds, tipping the bottle to his mouth, “I think you’re just jealous that Miss—Smith, or whatever her name is—likes me better than you.”
Miss Flander’s pinched, curious face reappears in my mind. “She likes food better than either of us.”
“You know your problem, Luke?” Hugh sets the now-empty bottle back on the table and strolls over to the fireplace, clasping his hands behind his back and fixing me with a stare.
“Why don’t you tell me when you’re not drunk?”
Hugh ignores me. “You have never been in love, and you don’t know how to enjoy yourself. You’re a stuffy”—another hiccup—“a stuffy old pigeon. Perhaps, if you stopped waiting for Father to decide who to sell you to, you would be more … understanding.”
I find Hugh’s logic difficult to follow at the best of times, and now is certainly not the best of times. “Father has decided who to—I mean, a marriage alliance is not a sale.” I frown.
Hugh laughs. “Isn’t it? Whatever you say, brother.” His smile is brittle and mocking. “Anyhow, even if Father has sentenced you, you may as well fall in love with someone while you await the evil day.”
This conversation will get us nowhere. I turn to leave.
“You should try falling in love sometime,” Hugh calls after me. “Might wipe that frown off your face for a bit!”
I shake my head at him, not bothering to reply. I know my duty when it comes to marriage, and falling in love has nothing to do with it.
HESTER
Chemmy wakes me up earlier than normal, anxious to hear the royal gossip. I yawn and bury myself deeper under the faded quilt. “You should have gone yourself if you wanted news so bad.”
A lumpy pillow thumps against my skull. “I’ll throw a shoe next if you don’t tell me everything. How’d you even get in?”
She wouldn’t. Probably. I sit up. “I met Prince Fitzhugh.” Another yawn. “Made me his personal guest; it was uncomfortable. He’s a good dancer, though.”
“You danced with Prince Fitzhugh?” She’s so surprised that she puts her gown on inside-out and has to restart the process.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me he calls himself Hugh?” I complain, pulling a comb through my matted curls. I’d been too tired to do anything with them last night, and now I’m paying for my negligence. I summarize the events of the evening, from the feathered headdresses to my unpardonable impertinence to Lucas.
“I can’t believe you danced with Prince Fitzhugh! Was it romantic?” Chemmy sinks down on the stool and sighs dreamily.
I grimace. “It wasn’t romantic at all. I was starving and everyone was staring at me.” I hold up a hand to stop her before she even starts. “And yes, I know you warned me—and you were right. But still, I did get the food!” I find the packet I’d saved and unwrap it with a rustle. “Look, Chemmy, cheese! ”
She takes a piece of pecorino. “I bet he’ll fall in love with you,” she says around a mouthful. “And then he’ll whisk you away to live in the palace.”
Laughing, I toss a biscuit at her head. “Silly,” I say. “Hugh—Prince Fitzhugh, I mean—is the flightiest man I’ve ever met.” I indulge in a nibble and purr in satisfaction at the savoriness. “Oh, cheese, how I’ve missed you!” Living in Wellington-upon-Chesbury has many advantages, but cheese is much more expensive here than it was at home. It’s one of the luxuries I’ve cut out until I save up enough to get Mum and Dad here.
“Did you meet Prince Inglebert too? I’ve heard he’s not as nice.”
“He certainly doesn’t smile as much.” I wonder how charming he’d be if he did smile; probably best that I didn’t see it. I wriggle into my clothes and pop a final bite into my mouth before rewrapping the packet; we can save the rest for later.
Chemmy leads the way downstairs. “Next year, when you’re a princess, you can invite me to the ball.”
“Not to the Commoners Ball.” I tromp down behind her. “We’ll make Ungus some sort of lord so that you’ll be nobility and can attend the fancy one.”
Mistress Mungon waits at the bottom of the stairs, frowning behind her spectacles. “Hester, we need to discuss your tardiness last night.”
I wince. “I’m very sorry, Mistress Mungon!” I wonder if she’d believe me if I said I was detained by a suspicious prince; then again, that’s hardly a testimony to my good character. “I lost track of the time.” Which is true enough: I spent far longer than I should have talking to Lucas.
Mistress Mungon mutters something about next time, but I’m distracted by a large basket sitting in the entryway.
“What’s that?”
Mistress Mungon sniffs. “A carriage driver brought it in for you after you went up to bed.”
I shake my head. I’d convinced my conscience that the carriage ride was in the same class of not-quite-gifts as the feast at the ball, and thus not a favor I need to repay, but a basket of food is a step too far.
“If you won’t look, I will,” Chemmy says, bending to pry open the lid. “Oh, more cheese!”
“I told him I couldn’t take charity!” Still, I peer over her shoulder. That is a lot of cheese.
“Told who?” Mistress Mungon asks.
“A—a man I was speaking to. Lucas.”
“A man!” Mistress Mungon frowns. “I should have known it was a man! Now, Miss Hester, I keep a respectable house—”
“Yes, Mistress Mungon,” I interrupt. She’s given this speech to each of her boarders in turn; I don’t think I need to hear it again. “It was an accidental meeting.”
“Is this from the pri—” Chemmy begins, but I cough before she can finish the sentence.
“I’ll take it back after work,” I say.
“Mind you’re on time for your chores.” Mistress Mungon’s face is still pinched in displeasure, and my conscience berates me. She’s been an accommodating landlady, even if her obsession with respectability borders on the absurd, and I should have been more careful last night.
“I will,” I say. “And I really am sorry for troubling you. It won’t happen again.”
Mistress Mungon pauses another moment, taking in my meek tone and posture, before accepting my apology. “Good.” She dusts her hands on her wide skirts before swishing back to the kitchen.
Chemmy’s still rummaging around in the basket. “What’s this?” She pulls out a small, clinking sack. She peeks inside, then looks at me with wide eyes. “There’s a week’s wages in here, Hester.”
I sniff. “I said I was hungry for food , not that I was a—a beggar!”
“If you didn’t want the prince thinking you were a beggar, you should have dressed differently.”
Well, I can’t say she didn’t warn me.
She hands me the pouch, and I scowl at the coins inside before I see the note. I slip it out, unfold it, and scan the elegant penmanship.
Miss Flanders,
Please accept this small token of my goodwill, and remember my request.
Respectfully—
My jaw drops. “Is this a bribe ?” Ridiculous! What does Lucas think I’m going to do, walk up and knock on the palace door and ask if Hugh wants to court me?
Chemmy stands and cranes her neck to read it. “Who’s it from? What request?”
“We need to get to work.” I refold the note, pressing my lips together. “I’ll have to return this later.”
Chemmy looks longingly at the cheese, but I snap the basket shut and hoist it over my arm. I’m not going to be accepting anything—gifts or bribes—from a prince.