Really Very Hideous
I haven’t spoken to Miss Flanders again, but I’ve made it my business to be in the back courtyard these past few mornings. I cannot single her out, but I can survey her as the carriage requisitioned to her employer rolls in. She hasn’t seemed as upset, and I’m satisfied to see that she’s at last riding instead of traipsing about the city at all hours.
“A letter for you, Your Highness,” Rodering murmurs to me as I pass him in the hall, returning from a morning ride. “I left it on your study desk.”
I nod my thanks and lengthen my stride slightly, turning for my study. Upon entering, I am surprised by a large, thick envelope addressed in elegant penmanship instead of a creased and smudged bit of paper.
Ah, Princess Islabetta.
Of course. I should have expected as much.
I sit down at my desk and slit the top of the envelope with a silver knife, drawing out a perfumed sheet covered in swirling calligraphy. The scent makes my eyes itch, and my mouth flattens in a thin line as I read .
There is nothing remarkable in the letter, but there was nothing remarkable in my letter to the princess, either. It seems we have little to say to one another, and that should not bother me. We would not be the first royal couple to marry without any affection and hardly any knowledge of the other.
Of course, I have yet to indicate any purpose to my writing; our marriage is still theoretical.
I sigh and tap my fingers on my desk. I must reply to this.
But not, perhaps, right now. I refold it, wrinkling my nose as the heavy perfume once again wafts my way, and lay it on top of some other paperwork.
HESTER
A week passes, and we’re out of cheese.
It shouldn’t bother me—after all, I get to eat my lunch with the palace servants each day, and their fare is enough that I’ve been skipping Mistress Mungon’s suppers, trying to make up for my lower wages. And yet I had grown accustomed to nibbling a bit of sharp cheddar before bed with Chemmy, like overgrown mice stuffed into our attic room, giggling about the events of the day.
I know I could get more if I dropped a hint to Lucas, and I’m ashamed of how tempted I am by the thought.
I see him every morning now. He’s always in the courtyard, waiting to mount his horse, or speaking with a groom, or doing something princely out there. Once he caught my eye, and smiled a bit, and my legs turned to jelly; but otherwise, he takes no particular notice of me.
Hugh, on the other hand, has made a habit of strolling into the workroom each afternoon. He is very charming, and very disagreeable, sitting down by me and saying all sorts of ridiculous things, even asking me to attend a ball with him—a ball!—which I had the great pleasure of declining.
I’m glad we are nearly done working at the palace. I’m thankful that each stitch is one closer to being finished with this job. I’m relieved to be returning to my own more familiar surroundings.
I am , really and truly.
And yet, when the final seam is finished, and the housekeeper pays Mistress Corthope with a decidedly “good riddance” air, and we are taking our last carriage ride away from the grand gates—well, I do wish I had a bit more cheese, is all.
The benefit of no longer sewing at the palace is that Chemmy and I can walk home together again, huddling close to block as much of the chilling wind as we can. Winter is threatening, and I think with an ache of the drafty cottage and blustery field Mum and Dad are still tending.
I worry the edges of my scarf absently while Chemmy and I hurry to the boardinghouse one Thursday evening. It’s been nearly a week since we finished at the palace, and though Mistress Corthope has been snippier than usual, I suppose I should be relieved that I can put that strange period behind me. I’d sent my polite reply to Lucas for the book and the flowers, which are now hanging upside-down from a rusty nail in the wall. I wished I had something to give by way of thanks, but I wasn’t sure about buying another penny dreadful—and besides, I really couldn’t spare the penny. So instead I had made a rough drawing of a woolly hog on the back of my note.
In retrospect, that was not my best idea.
But I had to give him something , and perhaps, I’d hoped, it would make him smile. Whether or not it did, I have yet to discover, as I haven’t heard from him since.
“What’s bothering you?” Chemmy asks, turning to me with her pink nose .
I gaze back innocently. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”
“You were sighing,” she accuses.
“Just thinking about my parents.”
Chemmy sniffs. “I bet you were moping because you miss—”
“I was not,” I interrupt before anyone on the street overhears her slander. I glance around, uneasy, but no one is paying attention to us; everyone is bent against the wind and just as intent on getting home as we are.
Chemmy grins despite the bitter weather. “How did you know who I was going to say, then?”
“Because you’ve said it before.” I tug her arm as we round the final corner, relieved to be nearly back to the boardinghouse.
We burst through the door in a mess of wind, unwrapping our cloaks as our teeth chatter. My eyes go to the entry table where mail waits for us, hoping for a letter. From Mum, of course.
Chemmy sees the parcel before I do, and her eyes light up. “Hester!” She points to a large box with my name on it.
The handwriting is not Mum’s, nor is it Lucas’—not that I particularly know his handwriting—and I am curious. It’s an unwieldy size, but I heft it in my arms and bumble it upstairs to our room, Chemmy following. I plop the box on the bed. Chemmy helps me untie the string around it; inside is another paper-wrapped something and a note.
Chemmy looks over my shoulder as I tear open the note first.
Miss Smith,
Tomorrow Lady Hitchingford is having a masquerade, and you must join me! I sent you a dress and a mask and will pick you up promptly at eight o’clock in the evening.
Delightfully, Hugh
I stare at Chemmy blankly. “Read this,” I say, though I know she’s already read the few lines over my shoulder. “Does it say what I think it says? ”
Chemmy plucks it from my fingers and rereads it, her expression a mirror of my own. “I think,” she says slowly, “that Prince Fitzhugh is … inviting you to another ball?”
“Of all the nerve! I already told him no!” I throw my hands in the air.
Chemmy tsks at me. “You could see Prince—”
“I doubt he goes to masquerades.” I take the note back and scowl at it. “ I must , must I? I don’t like being ordered about. And I don’t trust masquerades—who knows how many changelings are lurking in those costumes! And I don’t even know who this Hitchingford lady is!”
“Lord and Lady Hitchingford are nearly as rich as the king and queen themselves,” Chemmy says. “Everyone who is anyone will be there.”
“That leaves me out, then. I wonder how I can send this thing back to Hugh?” After refolding the note, I poke the parcel.
“Don’t you even want to see it?” Chemmy asks with a hopeful voice. “It couldn’t hurt to try it on, just once, even if you don’t go.”
I fix her with a stern—nay, a very stern—glare. “I’m not even going to unfold a single corner,” I begin. “It can go back right now.”
But Chemmy’s curiosity won’t be put aside that easily. “What’s the harm, Hester?” she asks. “Just see what he chose for you. You may as well go, you know. Lady Hitchingford will probably have good food.”
My stomach rumbles. “Not fair!” I say. “I don’t always think about food!”
“What if she has cheese?”
I hesitate for the briefest of moments, and Chemmy laughs at me. “Just look at the dress, Hester! It can’t hurt anything to take a peek!”
I shouldn’t—I should send it right back. But I’m not anxious to carry it out to the post right now, nor am I anxious to spend money on a carrier. I’ll just wait until Hugh arrives to pick me up tomorrow and throw it at him then .
Finally, I sigh. “One look. But no one is trying it on.”
Chemmy squeals, and together we unwrap the parcel, taking care not to rip the paper. Silk shimmers out at us as we peel back the wrapping, but we reserve judgment until we have uncovered the entire gown. Then,
“Oh, Hester, it’s hideous !”
Even expecting something ridiculous or gaudy—Hugh was wearing a violet waistcoat when I first met him—I’m still surprised by exactly how ugly this gown is. The square-necked creation is a vivid orange silk trimmed with even oranger feathers, and there are ruffles—so many ruffles.
“How did all this even fit in that box?” The dress seems to inflate itself, frills popping up all over the place. “And how are we going to get it back in?”
Chemmy fishes out an orange silk mask with long feathers bobbing from the corners and elbow-length gloves. “At least the gloves are nice. Sure you don’t want to try it all on?”
I drop the gown on the bed. “I’m sure,” I say crisply. “I’m not a doll for Hugh to dress up and play with.”
“He sent slippers, too,” Chemmy says, poking through the rest of the package.
“Feathered, I suppose.”
“No.” Chemmy frowns when she pulls one out. “Is this made of glass?”
“Glass slippers! Hugh would!” I say. “What’s the rest of that fabric?”
Chemmy laughs. “Your petticoats.”
“ All of that?” I pull out what seems like miles of rustling petticoat, my eyes widening until they can no longer widen. “Ladies wear all of this? How do they walk?” I’ve never been so thankful to be a peasant.
“Try it on and see,” Chemmy suggests with a twinkle in her eye, but Mistress Mungon’s dinner gong sounds.
“Help me fold this back up,” I say, ignoring any impulse to comply. It can’t happen, and it won’t happen, and the gown is worth a fortune—even if it is ugly—and must go back to Hugh immediately, anyway. I won’t risk soiling it.
Despite our best efforts, the gown will not condense to the size it was, so we settle for repacking the petticoats and accessories and hang the dress up before we head down to dinner.
“You should go, Hester,” Chemmy says, picking her way down the dark staircase. “You could probably persuade the prince to pay for your parents’—”
“I’ll pay for my own parents,” I say, and I immediately regret the harshness of my tone, so I offer a smile. “You know they’d flail me if I asked for a favor from anyone.”
Chemmy makes a face, but doesn’t press the issue, and we go arm-in-arm down to dinner.